Learning to Soar
by Vampire-Badger
Summary: Desmond Miles is eight years old when he wakes up with wings. If there's one thing guaranteed to make growing up difficult, it's being different. And wings... are about as different as it's possible to get. Lucky for him, he's got someone to show him the ropes.
1. Chapter 1

The first time Desmond leaves the Farm, he's eight years old.

It's an unexpected gift, one his father offers without any prompting from Desmond. He says something about showing Desmond what their way of life is all about, but Desmond doesn't pay much attention. He's excited by the idea of leaving, because he's heard about cities and the outside world, and he wants to see them for himself more than he wants anything else in the world.

They go to New York. There's some kind of assassin business going on there (nothing too dangerous, Desmond hears his father tell his mother, when she finds out and starts to worry), but Desmond doesn't understand the particulars at all. He doesn't want to understand, he just wants to see new sights and go to new places.

He never gets to see more than the inside of their motel room before he gets sick. He wakes up their first morning feeling mildly queasy, and whines until his dad throws up his hands and tells him to stay in bed and eat some cough drops. "We'll be back in a couple of days," he says as he leaves with his team.

"You're leaving me here?" Desmond asks.

"This is important," his dad says, and leaves before Desmond can say anything else. Which is probably good, because the next words out of Desmond's mouth are ones his dad would have never let him live it down.

"Aren't I important too?"

But there's no answer. There never is.

The sickness intensifies with a suddenness that's almost as terrifying as its intensity. Within half an hour, Desmond goes from being slightly ill, to collapsed on the bathroom floor. There are dark spots in his vision, and his stomach is churning like a boat in a storm. He feels hot and feverish, almost out of his mind with the pain of it all. The world has a surreal, nightmarish quality to it that scares him so badly he actually wishes his dad was there.

But no one comes, and all Desmond can do is curl into himself and wait for the pain to end.

Except it doesn't. Not for a long time, for hours that feel like days or weeks. After, Desmond is never really able to say how much time he's lost. His memory of the illness is spotty, and he knows he's lost time. But that's good, because the parts he does remember are something out of a horror movie. In one particular moment of clarity, Desmond remembers standing in the dingy bathroom, craning his neck and standing on his toes to see his own back in the cracked mirror. His reflection shows him something inhuman- muscles writhe and twist under his skin, reshaping themselves in impossible ways. He reaches one hand over his shoulder so he can feel a bulge of muscle form under his fingers, ooze downward, and merge into his lower back.

Then Desmond throws up and passes out again, slipping gratefully back into the relief of oblivion.

Sometime after that, though, Desmond wakes up. The fever is gone, but he feels weak and tired. But still better than before. He's curled up on a sort of nest built out of pillows and blankets, and there's something soft and warm wrapped around him.

It feels so good to just lie there, without the pain, without being out of his mind from fever that Desmond doesn't move, not until his bladder starts to complain about being too full. Then he opens his eyes, turns his head, and _sees_.

"No!"

Desmond scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself and running to the bathroom as fast as he can.

"No no no no no-"

He stops in front of the mirror, pale and horrified at the sight of his own reflection. With shaking fingers, he reaches over and pinches himself just above the elbow. It hurts like it would if he was awake, but that's not possible.

That's not possible because there are wings on his back. He can see them in the mirror, he can feel feathers brush against his back. He just can't believe it.

"No," he says again, like denying the wings will make them vanish. "No!"

But deep inside, he knows it's too late. The wings aren't just some parasitic growth tacked onto his back. They move the same as his arms, twitching and jerking as he freaks out- experimentally, he spreads one wing, and watches it (feels it) shoot out clumsily, knocking into the wall on the other side of the room. He feels like a baby kicking its legs at random, still trying to figure out how to get it under control. Everything feels wrong- he's too light, somehow, and off balance from the growths coming out of his back.

After that, everything is kind of a blur. He remembers running for a long time, and hiding when he can't run any longer. He doesn't want to be seen, doesn't want to see himself through anyone else's eyes.

He runs and hides for a long time. Days. Weeks, maybe. He starts to lose track as panic eats at his mind, stealing his ability to think, until he's something wild and animal.

This might have gone on indefinitely, except that one morning Desmond wakes from a restless sleep to find a stranger standing above him, watching him with eyes that look almost golden. Desmond starts and half jumps up, scrambling away on all fours because it's faster than standing. But he's backing into a corner between a low wall and a dumpster, so he can't go far. He ends up crouched on the ground, wings half lifted as if to take flight.

(He can't, of course, he has no idea how to fly and he's too terrified to learn)

The stranger snorts, a sound that could be either annoyance or amusement. He strides toward Desmond with quick, steady movements that closes the distance between them before Desmond can protest.

"Calm down," he says. "You're going to hurt yourself." He puts his hand on Desmond's back, in the space right between his wings. There are feathers there, small and fragile, and the man's hand moves gently across them in a way that feels unbelievably good. It's like scratching an itch that's been driving him crazy, and Desmond can't help leaning into the stranger's touch. The hand keeps moving, steady and firm and soothing across his back, and gradually Desmond feels himself start to calm.

His wings droop until the tips brush against the ground. Somehow, he ends up leaning against the stranger, lulled into a sort of half stupor by the feel of fingers in his feathers. His eyelids feel heavy, and Desmond starts to drift off a little. Time passes, until at some point Desmond hears a noise like the cooing of a baby bird, and jolts awake, panicking a little because the sound is coming from _him_-

"Don't," the stranger says, and Desmond pushes down the urge to run, pressing closer to the man instead. Dimly, he hears his father's voice in his head.

_Don't talk to strangers. Don't go out on your own. Don't do anything stupid. Don't trust anyone. Don't, don't, don't…_

It's a little too late to start following that advice by this point. Anyway, it's not like his dad has ever been there for him- this stranger he's never met is already kinder.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he mumbles, because he can't bring himself to say what he's really thinking, which is, _I'm scared. Help me._

He's not sure what he expects or what he wants at that moment. The world seems huge and impossible, too complicated for him to deal with or understand. Desmond is dirty and smelly from his time on the streets, tired and terrified of his own body. He feels like he's going to throw up, or fall over (he's so off balance he can barely stand up straight), or pass out. All he can do right now is sit perfectly still with his face buried in a stranger's chest and wish for someone to save him. Anyone.

_Please._

And amazingly, the man seems to understand. He doesn't ask Desmond to do anything, just sits down next to him in the dirt and the garbage next to the dumpster, and says, "You're filthy."

"Sorry-"

"Don't apologize," he says. "Learn." And while there's nothing angry in his voice, there's still something about it that makes Desmond listen. He pulls one of Desmond's wings toward himself and runs his fingers through the feathers. He calls it preening, and explains every move he makes in a calm, informative monologue. When he finishes the first wing, he tells Desmond to try the second on his own.

Desmond does his best, and whenever his fingers stumble the stranger is there to correct him, guiding with a patience that Desmond isn't used to. "How do you know what to do?" he asks as they finish.

"Experience."

Which doesn't tell him much. "You work with birds?"

A chuckle. "Sort of," the man says and half turns and pulls off his shirt so Desmond can see his back. It's muscular, like the rest of him, and covered in scars. Desmond's eyes are drawn to a pair of nasty ones on his shoulder blades. They look like they've been broken open and then healed over again and again. And Desmond thinks he can guess what they are.

"You had wings," he says. "Like mine."

"I still do."

And before Desmond's astonished eyes, the muscles of the man's back starts to writhe under his skin, subtly at first and then more energetically, until they look like they're about to burst through the man's skin. _And then they do, _scars tearing open and wings stretching out like they're reaching for the sky. The man grunts, obviously in pain, and Desmond sees blood running in red rivers down his back.

"Wow," Desmond breathes.

The man turns back to Desmond, reaching forward with his wings so Desmond can feel for himself that they're real. They're solid under his fingers. "You can hide them," he says.

"Yes," the man says. "It hurts, but people tend to notice wings."

"Can you teach me?"

"No," the man says. "Not yet."

"Why not?" Desmond asks, his voice half a whine. The stranger half smiles.

"Because you're young," he says. "Still a hatchling."

"So?" Desmond asks, pretending the name doesn't bother him. Hatchling_._

"You need to know your body before you can hide your wings like that," the man says. "You're not exactly human anymore. Things are different."

"They're just wings," Desmond protests.

"There's more," the man says.

"What?"

"Humans can't fly," the man says. "Not even humans with wings. It takes more, and whatever it is that causes the wings does other things too. Hollow bones, eagle's vision, instincts…"

Desmond frowns, thinking hard. Hollow bones- that's a thing birds have, he's heard about that. And it explains why he's been so off balance, why he almost feels like he's going to float away every time he moves. The vision thing sort of makes sense too. He's noticed a kind of weird glowing since his wings showed up, colors that mean something that he understands without knowing _how _he understands. And the instincts… he remembers waking up in the motel room days (weeks?) ago, curled on a nest of blankets he doesn't remember making… it makes him feel weird, knowing the wings aren't just on his back, they're inside his head, changing the way he thinks and what he does.

And it hits him then, just how little he knows about what's happening to him. But this guy- he seems to know all about it. And it's not _fair _that he's showed up out of nowhere, dangling hope in front of Desmond, only to vanish again because he's not old enough.

"Okay," he says. "I understand." And he stands, turning away from the man on the ground, trying not to think about where he's supposed to go next.

"But I can teach you other things," the man says, and Desmond freezes, not sure if he can believe his own ears. "How to hide. How to fly."

And, perfectly on cue, a gust of wind blasts through the alley toward them. Desmond's wings half lift in expectation, catching the wind at what he somehow knows is the _perfect _angle, and something flips in his stomach.

How to fly…

"You want me?" Desmond asks, cautiously. Because as much as he wants this, he doesn't know what the stranger is expecting out of him. "Why?"

The man doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. Even his own father doesn't want him (he _left _him in the motel room, all alone, without even saying when he'd be back), but this stranger somehow _does_. Desmond can see it on his face, in his eyes, and most importantly in the glow all around him- eagle vision? - that shines in the brightest blue Desmond has ever seen. _Friend_, it means. _Ally, trust, family-_

So Desmond smiles. Just a little. He can live with this. "Okay," he says.

"Good," the man says, and Desmond waits while he his wings vanish again, scars healing over seamlessly. It still looks painful. He pulls his shirt back on and picks Desmond up before he has a chance to say anything. He's small for his age (too small, his dad likes to say), and he fits snugly into the man's arms.

"Hey!"

"Tuck your wings in, hatchling," the man says, ignoring the protest. Desmond does as he's told, mostly out of surprise. It's not comfortable, with his wings trapped between his body and the man's arms, but he can understand the need to keep them hidden. Still, he has to complain about something.

"I'm not a fledgling," he says.

"What?"

"That's a baby bird. I'm _eight_."

"You're still a child."

"Then you're a-" only Desmond can't think of anything good, so he just finishes, lamely- "A big… bird. And if you get to call me fledgling, I'm gonna call you-"

"Fine," the man says, almost but not quite laughing. "Let's not go down that road."

"My name's _Desmond_," he says.

"Altair," says the man. "Nice to meet you, Desmond."

**-/-**

**Note- Yes, I know there are already multiple 'assassins growing wings' fics out there, but I read them all and I wanted more so I started writing one.**

**Trivia time- there's a group of people in the Polynesian islands that use the stars to navigate between islands. One of the main stars they use is one they call 'Big Bird'. Most of the world calls it 'Altair', though.**

**...I might possibly have been waiting for a chance to point that out for a solid six months. Seriously, there's just something about that star that makes people think about birds, apparently.**


	2. Chapter 2

Altair lives in a house in the suburbs that looks- from the outside- as unremarkable as any house can possibly look. Two floors, an attached garage, even a picket fence around the back yard. The grass is neatly cut, and a five year old car with a dent in the back bumper sits in the driveway. Desmond's not quite sure what he'd expected, but this is… pretty disappointing.

At least he is until they go inside. Desmond stops in the doorway, staring at the cluttered scene around him. It looks like the back room of a museum, filled with the most random collection of _stuff _Desmond has ever seen. He doesn't recognize most of it, but he knows enough to realize these are from all over the world and all throughout histories. None of it looks expensive- it's not the kind of stuff most people would care about. Old bowls, dusty tapestries, bits of faded cloth, nothing special. But the sheer amount of artifacts in the room is impressive, as is the obvious care that's been taken in laying it out.

"You like old stuff," Desmond says. "That's… cool." Maybe. "Where'd you get it all?"

"I travel a lot," Altair says.

"Why?"

"I'm looking for something."

Desmond doesn't ask any more questions (something in Altair's tone takes care of that), just nods and allows himself to be pushed farther into the house.

"I wasn't expecting guests," Altair says, after the silence starts to stretch.

"That's okay," Desmond says. "I wasn't expecting to be here."

Altair nods and leads the way into a kitchen that's only marginally cleaner than the front room. The clutter here is less impressive, mostly dirty dishes and half unpacked bags of groceries. Desmond studies the room in curious silence (everything here looks completely different from what he's used to from the Farm) that Altair misinterprets.

"The house isn't usually this much of a mess," he says. "I have a friend staying with me."

"Oh," Desmond says. "Okay. Um…" he shifts uneasily from foot to foot, trying to stamp down a growing awkward feeling. He's not exactly sure where he fits in here, and while he doesn't regret coming, he has no idea what to do next.

Altair seems to notice, and gestures for him to take a seat at the table as he moves around the room putting groceries away. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Desmond says, without hesitation. He can't remember the last time he ate, and now that he has time to think about it his stomach starts grumbling in complaint.

Altair passes him a plate of food from the fridge and waits until Desmond has eaten some before starting on his questions. "So where do you come from?"

"Um… I dunno," he says. No one's ever told him exactly where the Farm is, not even what state. It hadn't mattered before he left, and now he has no way to find out.

"You don't remember?"

"I do! I just… couldn't show you where it is on a map."

Altair frowns, but lets that pass for the moment. "So do you have a family? People that will worry about you?"

Desmond thinks about being abandoned by his dad in the motel, and about endless hours of training for no reason that was ever explained to him, and he shakes his head. "No," he lies. "No family."

"I didn't think so," Altair says. "Most people living out of dumpsters don't have people that care what happens to them."

A door slams somewhere in the house, and someone shouts a greeting. "Altair! You home yet?"

"Ezio," Altair sighs, as another man comes into the kitchen. "Can you make any more noise?"

"Sure," the man- Ezio- says. He looks like he's a couple years younger than Altair, and he smiles much more frequently. "Do you want me to try?"

"No," Altair says. "I would like you to try cleaning up after yourself, though. You're a grown man, I don't know why you can't take ten minutes to put your groceries away."

Ezio only grins and drops into a chair next to Desmond. "So you brought home another stray? I seriously don't understand how you always find us."

Desmond shies away from him, glancing desperately toward Altair for help. He's not sure who Ezio is or how he's related to Altair, but he's too loud and too close and Desmond really doesn't want that right now.

"Ezio," Altair says, and there's a note of warning in his voice that sounds like iron. "Don't."

"Fine," Ezio says, and backs off a little. "Sorry about that."

Desmond mumbles something and ducks back into his plate. Ezio hesitates, and Desmond sees the man's eyes run over his wings. "How was New York?" he asks Altair. "Did you-"

"I did what I went there to do," Altair says. "No complications." His tone makes it clear he isn't going to say anything else just then, and Desmond is fine with that. Whatever they're talking about sounds serious and he doesn't want anything to do with it.

"Good," Ezio says, and Desmond feels his face go red under the man's persistent stare. "But seriously, who'd you bring home this time?"

"This is Desmond," Altair sighs. "Desmond, this is Ezio."

"Hi," Desmond mutters.

"I like your wings," Ezio tells him, and Desmond frowns. It's _weird _the way Ezio says it, because he makes it sound like such an ordinary thing to say. Other people might have commented on a new haircut in the exact same tone.

"Thanks," Desmond mutters, mostly because Ezio is obviously waiting for him to say something. He desperately wants this conversation to be over, though- he doesn't want to talk about his wings, not to some stranger he's just met.

Ezio seems completely oblivious to this, and keeps on talking. "Can you fly yet?"

"Ezio…" Altair says, warningly, from the other side of the kitchen.

"What? I'm just asking-"

"He's had them a few days," Altair says, and Ezio backs off immediately, offering a quick apology before ducking out of the room. Altair watches him go, frowning. "He really should know better. He was a complete mess when his wings first came in."

"He has wings too?" Desmond asks, and Altair nods. "Are there a lot of us, then?"

"A handful," Altair says vaguely, and deliberately changes the subject before Desmond can ask any more questions. "When you're done eating I'll show you where you'll be staying. Ezio's in there now, but he's leaving for California this afternoon." He snorts. "It's about time he stopped crashing in my guest room anyway."

Desmond waits long enough to finish everything on his plate before following Altair to the second floor. There's not much up there- a bathroom, two small bedrooms, and a closet. The bedroom closer to the stairs is neat, almost military, and Desmond assumes it's Altair's. Ezio is in the second, tossing clothes into a half packed suitcase.

Desmond stands in the doorway for a second, watching Ezio. After a minute or so he glances back at Altair to see what he's supposed to do, only to see an empty hallway.

"Yea," Ezio says, and Desmond jumps a little. "He does that."

"Does what?"

"Disappears," Ezio says. "Like Batman."

"Why?"

Ezio laughs. "Well, in this case, I'm pretty sure he wants us to talk. He likes it when his flock gets along."

Desmond takes a couple steps into the room, suddenly more curious than cautious. Downstairs, Altair had mentioned there were more people with wings, more than just the three of them, and Desmond wants to find out who they are. "What does that mean?" he asks. "Who's in the flock?"

Ezio frowns, and doesn't quite meet Desmond's eyes. "Altair, obviously," he says. "He was the first one with wings. I was lucky- he found me right before my wings came in."

"Altair said you were a mess."

"It was a bad time," Ezio says. "My family had just died, and the wings didn't help much…"

"Oh. Sorry. Um…"

Ezio shakes his head. "It was a long time ago," he says. "Anyway, after me there was Edward. He was a pretty decent guy."

Desmond notices the past tense, but doesn't want to ask. Not after accidentally bringing up Ezio's dead parents.

"Then there was…Haytham. And Connor. Connor's the only one still around. And now there's you."

"That's less people than I thought," Desmond says. "Does four people count as a flock?"

"It does when there's no one else," Ezio says. Then he smiles, and it only looks a little bit forced. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about that. How old are you?"

"Eight."

"You look younger," Ezio says, and for a second he looks sad. Then that moment passes. "Anyway, all you need to worry about is getting your wings together. It's exciting, I promise. And Altair's a great teacher. You'll learn a lot." He walks past Desmond to the door, squeezing Desmond's shoulder on the way.

"Okay," Desmond says, and his stomach flips at the thought of flying. "Thanks."

"Good luck."

-/-

Desmond doesn't sleep well that night. He hasn't had a chance to sit still and catch his breath since he first got sick. Now he's in a strange house, sleeping in a guest room that's bigger than any room he's ever slept in before, trying to figure out where he fits in with Altair and Ezio and Connor (whoever that is).

A little after midnight, he hears someone moving around somewhere on the first floor.

He gets out of bed and makes his way downstairs with as little noise as possible. That much, at least, he's good at. His dad's been running drills with him since he was five, telling him to sneak upstairs or downstairs or wherever without being seen. This is harder, because he's only been here a few hours, but when he gets to the kitchen (staying just out of sight), he realizes Altair is too distracted to notice him, and so is the other man in the kitchen.

The two of them are huddled around the kitchen table, a pile of first aid supplies heaped around them. Altair is wrapping the stranger's forearm in a bandage, the both of them completely focused on the task. Desmond struggles for a minute with his vision, and finally manages to look him over in eagle vision. He's as bright a blue as Altair, and after consideration Desmond decides this is probably Connor.

"What happened?" Altair asks when he finishes.

"Templars," Connor says, in a tone of absolute disgust. "I _hate _this century. Security cameras, satellites, bugs- we're behind the times and it's costing us."

"We'll adjust," Altair says. "We always do." He frowns when Connor makes a disbelieving noise, and changes the subject. "So why are you here, anyway? I haven't seen you since-"

"Ezio called me," Connor says. "He said you brought a kid back from New York I wanted to see for myself."

"Desmond," Altair says. "Yes."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Connor asks. "Haytham's still out there somewhere. If he's working with the modern templars, they'll know all about us by now. I don't understand why you would want to bring a child into this."

"I had no choice."

"And the guards- police- in this century? They're different than we're used to, and if they find out you kidnapped a child off the streets, we're going to have them breathing down our necks too."

Altair shakes his head. "How old were you when your wings grew in, Connor?" he asks.

"Twenty," he says. "You know that, though-"

"You were an adult," Altair says. "You were an assassin, living your own life, taking care of yourself."

Desmond has to clap a hand over his mouth to keep himself from making any noise. Assassins, he should have _known_- he's just barely managed to get away from the Farm and his dad and everything that goes along with that, and now it turns out these people are assassins too? That's not _fair_.

"So?" Connor asks.

"The way I remember it," Altair says, "Is that when we met, you hadn't slept in a week and were so scared you were half out of your mind. Desmond is eight. _Eight_, Connor. I found him in a dumpster, and it looked like he'd been there for a while."

"So he panicked when his wings came in and ran for it," Connor says. "From what you've told me, Ezio was worse. How do you know he wouldn't have pulled himself together and gone back to his family?"

Altair shakes his head. "I watched him for three days before we were able to talk."

"So?" Connor asks. Outside the room, half hidden behind a wall, Desmond frowns. Three days? He doesn't remember that at all. Of course, if Altair is really an assassin, then he could have spied on Desmond as long as he wanted, but…

"He wasn't just panicking," Altair says. "He was…" and for the first time, he sounds unsure of himself. "I don't know. Feral. Wild. Something. It took three days before he was conscious enough to listen to me."

"That's... new," Connor says, while outside, Desmond digs his fingers into the doorframe. The whole world is spinning. He… really doesn't remember any of that. He remembers a long blur, a span of time between waking up in the motel room and meeting Altair where he didn't know who he was or where he was or what he was doing. He hadn't exactly been thinking during that time, just acting on instinct. But feral?

He's not sure, and that absolutely _terrifies _him. Not really caring anymore if the other two hear him, Desmond leans against the wall and slides down it, wing feathers scraping against the surface as he falls, until he can bury his head in his knees and cry without making too much noise. It's a skill he's had plenty of practice with on the Farm.

"I wasn't going to leave him there," Altair says. "I couldn't. He-"

There's a second of sudden silence, then Altair swears under his breath. Desmond hears a chair scrape against the floor and then footsteps coming toward him. When Altair kneels down in front of him, Desmond manages to hold off exactly half a second before throwing himself at the man, scared and miserable and wishing desperately that the world would start making sense again.

**-/-**

**Hopefully this chapter makes sense. I'm trying to reveal back story gradually instead of doing one big infodump but I feel like it just ended up being confusing... anyway, here it is.**


	3. Chapter 3

Altair can tell Connor doesn't really believe him, not until Desmond is writhing in his arms, half hysterical and half something worse. There's something foreign in his eyes that Altair doesn't like. He knows they're not really human anymore, none of them, but Desmond is different. Maybe he's just too young to cope with the changes in his body- before Desmond, Haytham had been the youngest to have his wings come in, and he'd been fifteen. Almost twice Desmond's age. Maybe Desmond just isn't ready for that, and he'll grow out of these bouts of… insanity, or ferality, or whatever. Maybe he'll grow out of it as he gets older.

Altair catches himself hoping (praying, even, something he hasn't done since he was a child himself) that Desmond _will _grow out of this. There will be enough unfairness in his future, he doesn't need insanity added in on top. For a second, the weight of everything he's seen, every secret he's keeping from Desmond, makes Altair want to scream along with Desmond. He doesn't, though, because whatever lies he's telling now, Desmond obviously still needs him. The vice grip the boy has him is proof enough of that.

Desmond takes a while to calm back down. He seems only vaguely aware of what's going on around him, moving more on instinct than on rational thought. His eyes gleam with a golden light, eagle vision, and Altair assumes that's the only reason Desmond is clinging to him instead of running or fighting. He spreads his wings, keening in a voice that is not at all human, and Altair pulls him closer, soothing him until the unnatural movement stops, and Desmond mumbles something. It's inaudible through the tears suddenly choking him, but definitely English.

"You were right," Connor says from behind Altair, and even in the circumstances he feels a vague sort of triumph. Connor hardly ever admits he's wrong. About anything. "He needs to be here." Altair nods, because who else would be able to help him?

"What's wrong with me?" Desmond asks, in a voice so quiet Altair can barely understand him. "I heard you. I'm crazy."

"Not crazy," Altair says. "Just… sick."

"I don't wanna be sick," Desmond says. "I wanna be human."

His voice trails into a whine, and Altair draws him in closer. "You are," he says. "You always will be. I promise. I swear."

And that, apparently, is good enough for Desmond. He drops almost immediately into a deep, exhausted, sleep. Altair stands, still holding the boy (_his hatchling, _no matter how much Desmond complains) in his arms. Connor calls out after him, disapproval heavy in his voice.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he tells him.

And Altair says, "I never do."

Desmond is light in his arms, lighter than he should be. Even with the hollow bones, even as young as he is, Desmond should still weigh more. He feels like nothing in Altair's arms, like something fragile and easily broken. Part of it is probably from his time on the streets, and the sickness from growing his wings in before that. But it's not _just _that, because the wings have grown in strong and healthy, dark grey with flecks of gold. If anything, the wings seem like the healthiest part of him. Every other inch of his body is too small or too pale or both, and it makes Altair afraid in a way that little else can.

Not for the first time, he wonders what he's supposed to do with a child. He's never raised a kid, never had much to do with them, honestly, and he doesn't know how to help Desmond now.

_But you would have,_ some part of his mind whispers. _If you'd lived the life you were supposed to have._

He forces the thought away. It's not his fault that he's here, in the 21st century, with a pair of wing on his back. He knows who history says he is, and what he's supposed to have done. He's read the accounts, some of them written in his own hand, of a man he does not recognize.

Desmond doesn't move as Altair settles him on the bed in the spare room. He looks like he's going to sleep for days, and Altair's grateful for that. It'll give him the time he needs to figure out what needs to happen next.

Downstairs, Connor is waiting in the kitchen, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed and a frown on his serious face. He looks up when Altair comes in, a half hopeful expression visible for a second before he looks down at the floor again. Altair bites back a frustrated noise- he's so tired of being the one everyone looks to for the answers.

"What are you going to do with him?" Connor asks.

"Nothing," Altair says. "Teach him to fly, hide his wings, everything I taught the rest of you. I don't know how to fix what's wrong with Desmond, and I doubt anyone else does, either. We'll figure it out. He might just grow out of it."

"Or he might not," Connor says. He droops a little, and after a minute or two, Altair changes the subject.

"How long are you staying?"

"Maybe overnight," Connor says. "Unless you need me longer?"

"No," Altair says. "We'll be fine." Then, trying hard to sound casual- "Where are you going?"

"East," Connor says. He doesn't offer any more details, but he doesn't really need to. There's only one place on the east coast he's interested in.

"Be careful," he says. "Last we heard, your father was still in the area, looking for exactly the same thing you're after. If you run into him-"

"I'll kill him," Connor says.

-/-

It takes Desmond five days to wake up, and after that he goes out of his way to avoid Altair. He goes white as a sheet whenever they meet, and refuses to say a single word. Desmond flips out a few more times, and Altair gets more worried with every day that passes. If the kid would only talk to him, he might be able to help. But the way he's acting now, Altair has no idea what to do.

He waits a few days before leaving the house again. Eventually, though, he has no choice- he's going stir crazy, and anyway he needs he needs to run some errands. Desmond is hiding somewhere (he's amazingly good at finding every tiny nook and canny to cram himself into), so Altair assumes he won't be missed while he's gone. When he gets back, though, he finds Desmond aimlessly wandering the house, studying everything around him with a long face. It's a huge relief, honestly- Altair had started to wonder if he would ever wake up.

"Altair!" Desmond manages to smile for a split second. "I thought you left."

"Just for a little while," Altair says. "Are you feeling better?"

Desmond half nods and half shrugs, which tells Altair exactly nothing at all. Then he says- "Sorry."

"For what?"

"I shouldn't have… I keep bothering you, I don't mean to, but… um-" He shuffles between one foot and the other, not quite looking at Altair. "I'm kind of going crazy. I can't _help _it, there's just something in my head and I can feel it and it wants me to be different and-"

"Oh," Altair says, and he feels suddenly like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He feels like laughing. "Is that all?"

Desmond gives him a hurt look and Altair tries to explain himself. "That's just instinct," he says. "It's the same thing that tells your body what to do and how to do it. That's a good thing in some cases. It keeps you from falling over even though your center of balance is different. It's going to help you learn to fly. We all have instinct."

"Then…" Desmond looks like he very badly wants to believe Altair, but can't quite bring himself to do so. "How come I'm the only one going crazy, then?" he asks.

"Because you're young," Altair says. After all, the younger a person is, the more their behavior is guided by instinct. It makes sense that Desmond would have more trouble adapting. "You'll grow out of this."

"I want to grow out of it now," Desmond says.

"Then learn to control yourself," Altair tells him. "I'm sorry if that seems harsh, but this is all happening inside your head. The only way this works out is if your self-control is stronger than your instincts."

Desmond looks at him for a very long time. Then he nods. "Okay."

-/-

Of course, it's not as simple as that. Instinct is a hard thing to fight, and Desmond isn't always as human as he wants to be. Altair watches him. All the time, just in case. And when Desmond does lose control of himself, he's there to hold him until the wildness passes.

It's kind of funny how quickly Altair adapts to having Desmond there. To being a parent, or… something like one, anyway. He's used to having people dependent on him- Ezio especially is a kind of a grown up child a lot of the time- but this is different. This is more than just chasing Ezio out of his guest room or holding Connor back when his anger starts to get the best of him. This is a child that is absolutely dependent on him for everything, and that's a steep learning curve.

Ironically, it's instinct that gets Altair through it all. There's something about the smell of hatchling wings, of downy feathers that makes it impossible for Altair to give up on Desmond. And it's not just him- even Connor, usually awkward and uncomfortable around kids, seems fascinated by him whenever he drops by.

And things do get better. Desmond's self-control gets better as time goes on, and so do his skills. He's not stumbling over himself anymore, and actually starts to develop the kind of agility that comes from hollow bones. He loves climbing- he's too young to fly, and his wings haven't grown in yet, so in the meantime he gets as high as he can without them. Normally, Altair would have started him on some kind of weapon training too, but Desmond has a habit of shutting down and clamming up when blades come out. He won't explain why, but Altair has a feeling it has to do with whatever his life was like before growing wings. That's another thing Desmond has been reluctant to talk about.

But he's getting more confident all the time, talking more, even smiling. Summer turns into fall, which fades quickly into winter. Ezio and Connor are in and out of the house all the time, sometimes for an hour or two, sometimes for a week or more.

Ezio's travels take him all over the world, hunting for precursor artifacts they don't fully understand. Mostly he just finds a lot of ordinary artifacts (and most of _those _end up cluttering up Altair's front room), but once or twice he's managed to get dangerous items out of templar hands. Connor, on the other hand, travels for another reason. He never comes right out and tells Altair he's hunting for his father, but it's obvious by the disappointment on his face every time he comes back, unsuccessful.

Which leaves Altair to take care of Desmond, and to do the research that none of the others want a part of. His job is to find out what- who- they all are. Or should have been. If history had gone on without interference. It's not a very rewarding job, and it's usually difficult. More than once, Altair falls asleep in his room with his research spread out around him, no closer to answers after years of study.

Then one day, he wakes up to find Desmond sitting next to him, frowning at the papers he can't possibly read- most of them aren't in English, and those are mostly centuries old. Still, Desmond is looking them over with an intense frown.

"What are you reading?" Desmond asks.

"Nothing," Altair says. "Research. History."

"What kind of history?"

"Well…" Altair hesitates. He hasn't told Desmond anything about where he or the others come from. Still, if the hatchling is going to stay with them, he's going to get dragged into it sooner or later. "That's a long story."


	4. Interlude 1

By the time Altair is eighteen, he's pretty sure his body is done changing. Puberty had been a real challenge- he's been trained to know his body since he was barely old enough to walk. It's important to know exactly what he's capable of- how far he can jump, how fast he can run, what exactly he's capable of.

Puberty robs him of all that. For several years, he's barely an assassin, not even one in training. He's just an ordinary teenager, tripping over his own feet and growing too quickly. When he finally finishes growing, it's a huge relief. No more adjusting his center of balance from day to day, no more too-long knees and arms, no more _changes_ to his body. For about six months, Altair is happy. He throws himself into his training, soaking up his lessons like a dry sponge dropped in water. His life is going well. He's on the fast track to becoming a full assassin, and his future looks bright.

Then, he gets sick.

For three days and three nights, he's bedridden, too ill to even know where he is or what's going on around him. Strange dreams merge with the waking world, so tightly entwined Altair can't tell what's real and what's not. He's delirious, and when the fever finally breaks it's a huge relief. Altair hasn't been sick since he was a very small child, and he hasn't much enjoyed the experience.

"So you're up."

Altair starts at the unfamiliar voice and starts to push himself up (he's lying on his stomach for some reason, and it makes him feel pretty much defenseless), but a firm hand pushes him back down. "Let go," he says, but the pressure doesn't let up.

"You'll want to be lying down for this," the stranger goes on. "It's kind of a shock."

"What is?"

"You have wings."

Altair does stand up then, pushing the hand away and reaching back for something he still doesn't believe is there. But his groping hands find feathers, feathers attached to wings, and when those wings shiver under his touch he can feel that too, muscles in his back working in unfamiliar ways.

"I don't- I-" Somewhere in the back of his head he realizes he sounds like a stuttering moron, but he can't make himself stop talking. "This isn't- wings?"

_What?_

He looks up, desperate for something (anything) that might reassure him, but there's only the man who'd had his hand on Altair earlier, and Altair groans as he recognizes Malik- the man's a couple years older than he is, also not an assassin but pretty close, and they've never gotten along.

"Yes," Malik says. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, they're your wings," Malik says. "If anyone knows, it should be you."

"I don't," Altair says. His whole body feels numb, and he can barely force the words out. "I have no idea." He shakes his head, hoping to clear it. "What are you doing here, anyway? You're not a medic."

"It's my rotation," Malik huffs, and Altair nods vaguely. All assassins in training have to take their turn helping in the infirmary, mostly cleaning up dirty bandages and changing sheets. "No one else wanted to be around you," Malik goes on, and Altair realizes there's no one else in the usually crowded infirmary. "So I got saddled with watching you."

"Oh."

"They think you're cursed," Malik adds, like that's going to help.

Altair opens his mouth to argue, and hits himself in the face with a wing he still can't fully control. "I think they might be right," he says instead.

Malik frowns at him, clearly not impressed.

Altair spends a lot of the next two years being frowned at by Malik. For whatever reason, he's one of the few people in Masyaf still willing to talk to Altair. It's Malik that coaxes Altair out of the infirmary, and pushes him to start training again. It's more difficult than it ever had been before, and not just because of the two bloody useless limbs attached to Altair's back. And when Altair starts complaining about this, it's Malik who listens to him whine and suggests that if the wings bother him so much for being useless, he might as well learn to use them. Malik's the one that pushes him off the top of Masyaf's tallest tower when Altair doesn't think he's ready to jump, and it's Malik waiting at the bottom when he finally lands half an hour later. Malik's the only one that Altair tells when he figures out how to hide his wings, and Malik-

Malik is the only friend he has.

"Why?" Altair asks Malik one day. "You're the only one that doesn't think I'm a demon, or worse. You didn't even like me before. So why-"

"Temporary lapse of judgment," Malik explains.

"It's been two years."

"Maybe a little more than temporary," Malik says.

That's one of the last conversations he ever has with Malik, because two weeks after that he wakes up in another century. In Italy, a country that Altair has never been to and doesn't know. There's no reason for it that Altair can figure out, nothing but a faint golden glow in his wing feathers on the first morning in Italy to indicate that something strange and impossible has happened.

Then even that fades, and Altair is stranded in a strange place and a strange time, with no idea how to get back or what to do. He wastes a month and a half trying everything he can think of before bowing to the inevitable and learning to live in this strange new world he's suddenly found himself in.

He teaches himself Italian. His training at Masyaf included extensive languages, and adding another one doesn't take much effort. He changes his clothes, his way of walking, everything that makes him stand out. He is a blade in the crowd, and that's just as true in this century as it had been in his own.

Maybe more so, because Altair quickly realizes Italy is crawling with templars.

Templars- they'd barely been a cloud on his horizon in Masyaf before he left, just a whispered rumor circling the keep. Most people hadn't seemed to think they were dangerous. Apparently they'd been wrong- Altair finds the assassins in Italy almost wiped out, threatened by a templar order that's old and powerful and more dangerous than anyone could have guessed.

So of course he involves himself. He's not technically an assassin- his training had ended the day he woke up in the infirmary with a pair of wings- but they're still his people and he has to help.

And that's how he meets Ezio. Altair is tracking a group of templars when he stumbles onto the Auditores. He's heard the name before, knows the family is allied with the assassins, and therefore rides to Florence to prevent their deaths.

He gets there, of course, too late. They are hanged hours before he arrives, and all Altair can do is watch as a small group of guards take the bodies down, and curse himself for not getting there sooner. He'd done the best he could with what he'd had, but that's no consolation.

The truth is, this century is hard- Altair has no allies, even among the assassins. He feels instinctively that he's sort of missed his chance to be a part of them. The assassins in this era still fight for the same creed, still uphold the same ideals, but they're scattered and organized in a way Altair just doesn't fit into. This isn't Masyaf, and it's not the twelfth century. Straying on the edge of things works better for him, but it also means that sometimes…

Sometimes, he comes too late.

He stumbles over Ezio that evening, literally, running into the boy in an alley near the sight of the hangings. Altair's first thought, on seeing the wide eyed child he's accidentally collided with, is that Ezio is weak, an imposter and a coward. He wears the robes of an assassin as if they are part of a costume, along with a (broken) hidden blade he has not earned. The only reason Altair doesn't tell Ezio exactly what he's thinking- that he should have done better, fought harder, gotten there faster- is that Altair had failed, too.

Ezio doesn't question why a stranger would want to help bury his family, and Altair offers no explanations. This is an apology, of a sort, the only kind he is able to offer. It has nothing to do with Ezio, and Altair says nothing to him. They labor in silence, and when they finish Altair fully intends to leave. Staying on the move is the best way to keep hidden.

But that's when it happens. Ezio looks over at Altair, eyes bright in a way that Altair recognizes- except he doesn't quite believe it, because he's never seen anyone else with eagle vision before. And then Ezio collapses, falling forward, and Altair moves to catch him before he can hit the ground.

Ezio's skin is cold as a dead thing under Altair's hands, but that's not what holds Altair's attention. He can feel the muscles in Ezio's back shifting and tearing and reforming. Growing, almost as if there are wings there.

And there is no question of abandoning Ezio after that. Altair knows what's happening here. He remembers his own sickness, centuries (two years) ago. He remembers being abandoned by everyone but Malik, and the horrible solitude that followed.

And now, at last, he understands why. Over the next three days, Altair watches Ezio's body change in ways that make even Altair sick to his stomach. It is literally repulsive to watch, like there's something alive crawling around inside Ezio. Knowing that there are wings growing there makes the whole thing more disturbing, rather than less.

On the evening of the third day, Ezio's back breaks open and his wings spill out in a mess of feathers and fluids and blood. It smells like something's given birth in the tiny room Altair's brought Ezio to, and he only briefly considers cleaning it up before deciding he wants nothing to do with the mess. Besides, Ezio's fever breaks almost immediately after that, and he wakes only hours later.

And while that is a relief (Altair has no idea what he would have done if the fever hadn't gone down on its own), it's not the end of their problems. Ezio reacts badly to everything that's happened, cursing his wings, himself, Altair, everything and anything he can think of. Altair grits his teeth and rides it out, because Ezio's family is dead and his body is suddenly changed. Anyone else might react the same way.

But then- after nearly a month of watching him metaphorically self-destruct, Altair walks in on a panicking Ezio, shredding his wings, tearing out feathers and clawing at his back. Altair stares in horrified surprise until his brain catches up with what his eyes are seeing, and then he snaps. Until now he's kept his own wings secret, not wanting to agitate Ezio any further.

Now he spreads them to their full span, ignoring the familiar pain in his shoulders (like cutting his skin open with a dull blade) and grabs Ezio by both wrists, pinning them tightly to stop his frantic clawing.

"Stop," he growls. "Hurting yourself does nothing. Your family is dead and you have wings. So be it. That doesn't mean your life is over. I don't care what you do, if you seek revenge, or run away, or whatever else you want to do. Just don't sit there and tear yourself apart."

Ezio is staring at him with wide eyes, and Altair fumbles over his words. "Just- grow a pair, alright?"

After a long, tense pause, Ezio mutters, "I think I did that already."

"What?"

"Grew a pair," Ezio says, flexing his abused wings pointedly. Altair snorts and lets him go, glad for the first and last time in his life to hear one of Ezio's terrible jokes.

That's the turning point. After that, Ezio bounces back, not completely recovered but at least trying. He leaves the next night, traveling by night because he doesn't know how to hide his wings yet, headed for his uncle's villa. Altair goes with him most of the way, half because he feels a vague responsibility to pass on what he's learned to Ezio, and half to make sure Ezio isn't going to give up on himself again.

He doesn't, and the journey isn't as bad as Altair is half afraid it will be. By the time they reach Monteriggioni he's back to what Altair assumes is normal, assuming that normal for Ezio is sort of obnoxious. Altair surprises himself by enjoying his company, and when they eventually part company he's half started to think of Ezio as a particularly annoying younger brother. The comparison isn't that unnatural- they're two of a kind, the only people with wings in the whole world, and anyway Ezio is only three years younger than Altair.

Before saying goodbye, Altair tells Ezio how to find him- where to send letters, what places he likes to stay at when he's in the area. It turns out Ezio is a reliable- almost prolific- correspondent, and they exchange letters more or less constantly over the next eighteen months. Altair gives Ezio advice about wings whenever he can, and Ezio responds with long, rambling letters about his daily life.

They don't actually meet in person again for a very long time, and then one day Ezio just drops, literally, back into Altair's life. Altair is walking through a crowd, his mind on the bed and meal waiting for him a few blocks away, when someone in white tumbles off a rooftop to land next to him, falling into step beside him as though he's been there all along.

Altair does a double take and nods a greeting. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"That's all you have to say?" Ezio asks. "It's been a year and a half since we saw each other and you're acting like we see each other every day!"

Altair shrugs. Enthusiasm just isn't in his nature. "You look well," he says, and he means it. Ezio is fitter than he had been a year and a half ago, grown into the assassin robes that used to look so out of place on him. His wings are hidden, too, something Altair knows is a recent development, the result of months of effort. He knows this because Ezio has sent him half a dozen letters whining about how difficult the process is.

"Thanks," Ezio says, almost appeased but not quite. "You look-"

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at Altair.

"What?" Altair asks. "What's the matter with you?"

"I thought- I mean, I always figured it was just a coincidence, but you look…" suddenly he frowns, and shoves Altair a little. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"How old are you?" Ezio demands. "Like, a thousand?"

"Ezio!" Altair says. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about!"

Eventually, Ezio manages to get the whole story out. It takes longer than he should have- he keeps getting distracted and going off on tangents that have little to do with the meat of the story- but he does explain. About the hidden room in his uncle's villa with the statues of the world's greatest assassins, and the one with _his face _in the middle of them all. About the endless stories he's heard of the man who reinvented what it meant to be an assassin. About the codex he's spent way too much time looking for already.

"That's not possible," Altair says dismissively. "It's someone else. It's not me."

Ezio frowns, and pulls something out of a pouch on his belt. "Here," he says. "A codex page."

And then Altair is looking at a cracked, aging page, covered in his own writing, written in a code that no one else should know. One of the novices in his year had come up with it as a way to pass notes without their instructors knowing. He wants to laugh, suddenly, at how ridiculous this is, but the urge fades quickly. This is his writing. He wrote this, except he hadn't, because he'd been brought into the future before he had a chance. He looks up at Ezio, frowning. "I need to know more."

-/-

Desmond stays amazingly quiet for most of the story, but eventually he gets restless and starts to squirm on Altair's lap. "I don't get it," he says. "You're in two places at once?"

"It's complicated," Altair says. "I'm guessing a little, but here's how I think it works. When I went into the future, I didn't go into _my _future. It has something to do with alternate universes, I think, and in this one I was a normal person. No wings, no time travel, just… normal. So there were two of me. One in the twelfth century, doing things I never got to do, and me in the fifteenth."

Desmond frowns, still obviously confused, so Altair keeps going. "It was just a theory until Edward and Haytham and Connor, but after that-"

"Oh yea!" Desmond says. "Do I get to hear about them?" He's obviously fishing- nobody wants to talk about the complicated mess that is the Kenways, which only makes Desmond more determined to pry.

"Maybe someday," Altair says. He's not in the mood to explain them right now.

"But-"

"What do you want for breakfast?" Altair interrupts. "Anything you want." The distraction works, and Desmond runs for the kitchen before Altair can change his mind about letting him eat whatever sugar filled cereal Ezio has stashed in the back of the kitchen cabinet.

Altair has a moment of relief that at least he won't have to tell the rest of the story (yet), and then abruptly frowns.

He'd expected questions about the assassins as soon as he started his story, but there hadn't been any. That meant he already knew about the order. It's not much of a surprise- for whatever reason, the wings seem to follow assassins through history. Still, Altair has been purposefully avoiding the modern assassins. From what he's seen, the war between the templars and the assassins in this century has been marked by an unusual amount of violence (which is really saying something, given the history of their fight), a product of the times maybe.

He's not a fan. He hadn't liked them before, and looking at Desmond- at the quiet, almost shell shocked kid he'd brought into his house, who had never once mentioned his family and had only recently started opening up- Altair likes them even less now.


	5. Chapter 4

Desmond gets up at half past six on Christmas morning, and then lies in bed trying to figure out why he's awake. He'd never once celebrated the holiday back on the Farm, and from what he can tell, Altair doesn't even know the holiday exists. Or at least he's not interested- Desmond is slowly becoming convinced that Altair knows literally _everything_.

He knows everything about history, because apparently he's lived through all the most exciting parts. He knows how to _fly_, and he's been gradually teaching Desmond (which is awesome). He knows everything about everything-

Something bumps softly downstairs, and Desmond sits up in bed. There's not supposed to be anyone else in the house except for him and Altair, and Altair doesn't make noise. Ever. Desmond hesitates before dropping out of bed and tiptoeing to the door. He stops at the top of the stairs and peers down, switching to eagle vision so he can see in the darkness.

There's two people by the front door, glowing a pale blue and bickering too quietly for Desmond to make out the words. It doesn't matter- the color is enough for him to recognize them. He vaults over the banister and spreads his wings the way Altair's been teaching him. The down (baby feathers, Ezio calls them) has only just finished falling out within the past couple months, and Desmond hasn't had enough time to learn how to fly the right way. It's more of a controlled fall than real flight, but he slows himself enough to keep from getting hurt when he lands, tucking into a roll instead of falling right on his head. Then he jumps up and takes a flying leap at the closer figure, who turns around just in time to catch him.

"You're getting heavy," Ezio says, as Connor ducks away from one of Desmond's wings.

"I'm _not_," Desmond says. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Christmas," Ezio says. "Of course we came home."

"It was his idea," Connor says. "I don't even celebrate Christmas."

Desmond doesn't care whose idea this is- he's just happy at the idea of a full house, of all four of them together. It's usually just him and Altair, with Ezio and Connor popping in when they're in the area. This is the first time they've all been in the same house.

"How long are you staying?" he asks.

"A couple days," Connor says.

"At least a week," Ezio corrects. "It's Christmas, Connor!"

"I don't celebrate Christmas!" Connor snaps, and the two of them are bickering again in five seconds flat. Desmond watches them go at each other, listening to the well-practiced tone of the argument. It almost sounds like they're enjoying themselves, honestly.

Ezio produces a more or less constant stream of chatter, while Connor limits himself to occasional terse comments. He knows exactly what to say and how to say it to get a rise out of Ezio- as the Italian bursts into a fresh stream of rapid fire complaints (over dramatic in a way that tells Desmond he's not really serious) Connor glances at Desmond and grins, just a little. Desmond smiles back at him.

Altair appears out of nowhere next to Desmond, who jumps. He hadn't even heard the man come downstairs. Altair surveys Ezio and Connor for a long moment, not saying a word, just watching. On most people, his expression would have looked angry, maybe even dangerous, and it certainly shuts Ezio and Connor up. But Desmond can see a tiny, almost invisible smile on his face, and he feels a sudden rush of excitement. It's Christmas, and for once everyone's come home.

It's going to be the best day ever.

"So you came in for Christmas?" Altair asks.

"That's the plan," says Ezio, with evident satisfaction. "Connor didn't want to come, but I made him."

"It's true," Connor says. "We don't usually do holidays. Why start now?"

Desmond stares at him. "It's _Christmas_," he says.

"It-" Connor sighs. "Fine."

All three of them turn to look at Altair, who nods. "Alright," he says. "If we're going to do this, we might as well do it right."

-/-

Altair drafts Desmond to help clean the clutter that's been slowly gathering during the last couple of weeks. It's kind of weird, actually, because usually the house is only a mess if Ezio's come by. But this is all Altair's stuff, and that's kind of weird. But with their new and unexpected holiday plans, it's suddenly important that the house is clean. So the two of them end up cleaning while Ezio and Connor go out for food.

"What's going to be open today?" Desmond asks. "It's Christmas, you can't buy groceries on Christmas."

"They'll find something," Altair says. "Ezio is… resourceful."

"Which means he's going to do something stupid, right?"

"More or less," Altair says. "Which is why Connor went with him."

"To keep him from doing anything stupid?"

"To keep his stupidity to a reasonable level," Altair corrects, and hands Desmond a box full of papers. "Take this upstairs."

"It's heavy!"

"So don't drop it."

"What's in it?" Desmond asks.

But Altair only turns bright red and mumbles something before finding an excuse to leave the room. Desmond stares after him, totally confused. Altair doesn't blush, and he doesn't mumble, and he doesn't run away. Desmond looks down at the papers in the box, but they're out of order and don't make any sense. After a few minutes he shrugs and hauls the box upstairs to Altair's room. He'll ask Ezio about it later- the man loves to talk, and he's known Altair the longest of all of them.

But then, when Ezio and Connor finally do come back (with a collection of groceries that will make for a very interesting Christmas dinner), Ezio announces they need a tree. And, to Desmond's delight, he takes Desmond with him.

Because his wings are so visible, and he hasn't learned to hide them yet, Desmond's been pretty much confined to the house. He's going a little stir crazy. Ezio throws him a coat that's three sizes too large. It makes him look like a hunchback, but it does a decent job of hiding his wings.

"That's not going to fool anyone," Altair says.

"It's good enough," Ezio says, and within an hour he and Desmond are at a tree lot, wandering down roads of picked over merchandise.

"Not many choices," Ezio says, and the old man working the lot overhears them and snorts.

"That's because most people don't wait until Christmas Day to buy a tree."

"Don't listen to him," Ezio tells Desmond conspiratorially. "We don't have time for that kind of negativity."

Desmond laughs- he feels happy, almost delirious with the excitement of the day. He follows Ezio down the rows of trees until they find one that Ezio decides is "good enough".

"Desmond," Ezio says when the tiny tree has been forced into the car. "Do you like it here?"

"Yea," Desmond says. "Of course. Why?"

"Because- I don't know. You're stuck in the house all the time. It sounds… not fun."

"Only until I learn to hide my wings," Desmond says. And Altair has promised to teach him after the New Year, now that he's sort of started to figure out flying. Or falling more slowly, anyway.

"It would drive me crazy," Ezio says, which doesn't surprise Desmond at all.

"It's not that different from the Farm, anyway."

"What's that?"

"It's where I'm from," Desmond says, very slowly. He hasn't quite decided how he feels about the assassins. The Farm had been cold and dark and _mean_. Desmond had hated every second of the time he spent there, and hoped to never see it again. He still hates it now, and sometimes he has nightmares of being forced to go back.

But… Altair is an assassin. So is Ezio. Connor too, probably, even though no one has ever actually said so (no one ever talks about Connor's past at all, actually). And they're (usually) nice. It doesn't make sense that they're all part of the same group.

The assassins at the Farm are solely concerned with winning their war with… whoever they're fighting. No one's ever bothered explaining that part to Desmond, and he doesn't much want to know. But it had been impossible to forget that it was a war they're fighting, that people can (and will and do) die, that no one is safe, that staying hidden is the only way to stay alive. The best Desmond has ever gotten from his father is a kind of distant approval, and not very much of that. He can't imagine his dad holding him like Altair does when he has nightmares, or joking with him like Ezio, or just _being there_, quiet but dependable as a rock, like Connor.

"What was it like there?" Ezio asks. He's gone very alert suddenly, and Desmond has the unnerving feeling that he already knows exactly what he's going to say, and is just waiting to hear how much Desmond is willing to tell him.

"It was an assassin headquarters," he says, after a pause. There. The words are out now, and Desmond plunges on before Ezio can react. "It was really quiet. In the middle of nowhere, so no one could find us. There were people fighting all the time though. Training. Guns and knives and just bare hands, or learning to climb or sneak or whatever- it just went on all day and all night. Sometimes people would disappear for a long time, and they'd come back shot or stabbed. Or not at all-"

He's shaking now, uncontrollably, and whatever else he'd been planning to say dies, unspoken, on his tongue. His mind is filled with the memories of blood, of people he knows coming back from missions with wounds so bad he can't imagine they'll survive (and sometimes they don't). He wants nothing to do with it anymore, doesn't even want to think about it. He can feel his mind turning away from the thoughts, shutting down, trying to let instinct take over. Instinct- that wild, feral insanity that he hasn't _quite _managed to shake. Altair's told him he'll grow out of it eventually, but that doesn't help him now.

"Desmond," Ezio says, crouching so he's more on the same level. His eyes are big and worried.

"I can't-" Desmond crosses his arms over his chest and digs his fingers into the skin, choking back tears so strong they keep him from getting another word out. He's tired of this, he wants it to go away, he doesn't want this thin in his head telling him what to do or how to think-

"Don't fight it."

Desmond shakes his head, hard and fast. There's no chance-

"This thing that's in your head?" Ezio says. "It's you. It's your blood and your DNA and it's just you. It's new and it feels different and that's scary. It's okay. But your instinct is a part of you, the same as your wings are a part of you. If you keep fighting, you will be miserable for the rest of your life. If you let it in, let it guide you… I promise it will be okay."

Ezio sounds so certain, but Desmond isn't exactly convinced. He looks up, silently pleading with Ezio to reassure him.

"Listen… I'm sorry about the Farm," he says. "We've known about that place for a while, but… well, it's complicated. I'm sorry for everything that happened there. You shouldn't have had to see that."

"It's… okay," Desmond says. The shaking has stopped, and he feels… better.

_I'm sorry_.

"I'm here now." And he smiles a little, because something is changed in his mind. He feels safe, really safe, for the first time. Until now, he's half believed that this is just a temporary break, and something will go wrong, and he'll end up back in the Farm. But not now. Not with Ezio looking him straight in the eye and apologizing. And so Desmond makes an effort to do as Ezio tells him. Instinct. Okay.

He stops fighting it.

And Ezio's right. As soon as he stops fighting his instinct, it slots neatly into place in his mind, a guiding force instead of a controlling one. "Ezio?"

"Yea?"

"I want to fly."

-/-

Ezio is surprisingly quiet on the drive out of town. They keep going until there's nothing and no one around, just empty streets and snow covered hills. Desmond pulls off his coat and leaves it in the car. The wind outside bites into his back but Desmond ignores it, spreading his wings and launching himself into the sky. It feels exactly like he'd imagined it would, his wings moving more like a part of him than ever before. He's not overthinking it anymore, he's just moving, on… on _instinct_.

It's-

This is-

There are no words for what this is. He feels like he's come home, like he's finally seeing the world the way it really is. He's stopped fighting himself, and suddenly his wings feel like they're truly his. Yesterday they had been a parasite on his back, a useful tool but also kind of a hassle- always in the way and not exactly under his control.

And now they are, and it's awesome.

Desmond loses track of time a little, but at some point Ezio comes up after him, his own wings beating in time with Desmond's, to tell him it's time to go back down.

"I don't wanna," Desmond whines, but it's halfhearted at best. Now that he's thinking about it, his wing muscles are burning from the unexpected strain, and it's even colder than it had been on the ground. His wings shudder, and Ezio catches him before he can fall.

"Come on," Ezio says, over the sound of the wind. "Time to go home."

Desmond is shivering by the time they land, and he spends the ride back sniffling and sneezing. When they get back, he manages to take one step through the front door before Altair gets a good look at him and sends him straight up to bed.

No amount of argument will change his mind, so Desmond reluctantly goes. He's not intending to sleep, but somehow when he closes his eyes, his whole body just shuts down, and he doesn't wake again until evening.

He feels even worse than he had before the nap, sick and stuffy and full of aches. His throat hurts and his nose is dripping like a leaky faucet. He decides that maybe going for a half-naked flight in the middle of December is not the best choice he's ever made. Desmond wraps his blanket around his shoulders, ignoring the uncomfortable way it settle over his wings. He's cold and the rough wool feels good enough that he can ignore it for now.

Downstairs, the other three are playing some kind of card game and talking in low voices. Desmond curls himself into a ball on the couch under his blanket, shifting until he's leaning on Altair. It's warm and comfortable and safe here, and Desmond lets the quiet sound of conversation lull him into a kind of comfortable stupor.

Even with being sick, this is the best Christmas he's ever had, the best Christmas he can even imagine. He closes his eyes, trying to make this moment last. He wants to remember it forever. Eventually the game ends, and Altair puts his hand on Desmond's head.

"Nooooooo," Desmond mutters, squirming away.

Altair sighs. "Seriously, Ezio," he says. "You were gone for two hours, how did you manage to get him sick?"

"Flying," Desmond says, half opening his eyes and smiling up at Altair.

"Really?" Connor asks. "You didn't mention that."

"I was going to wait for him to feel better before I said anything," Ezio says. "But yea."

"Good job," Altair says to Desmond. "I'm proud of you."

Which is something Desmond has never actually heard before. He drifts off again, sick and shivering and smiling like this is the best day of his life. Because it is.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: This chapter happened because I was playing AC3 and got semi-distracted by petting all the animals. Sorry in advance.**

**-/-**

Winter passes slowly for Desmond, who spends most of it in bed. The fever he caught on Christmas takes a week and a half to go away, with a sore throat and running nose that lingers for another couple weeks after that. Then there's some sort of problem with his feathers falling out. It doesn't feel too bad, but Altair is very concerned that he's caught some kind of avian disease, and so it's not until the beginning of March that Altair comes to him and says he's probably well enough to learn to hide his wings.

"Okay," Desmond says. "How?"

Altair sets aside his empty breakfast bowl and gives Desmond his Serious Look across the table. Desmond tamps down his excitement and tries not to smile. The serious face means serious business.

"It's not going to be fun," Altair says. "The actual process is fairly easy to learn, but it hurts. A lot." He flexes his own wings, a tense, almost defensive movement that surprises Desmond. He's not used to seeing Altair look so uncomfortable.

"How much is a lot?" Desmond asks. He doesn't feel so much like smiling anymore.

"Have you ever been stabbed?"

"Yes," Desmond says. "Sort of." When he was five, he'd gotten too close to a group of teenagers messing with knives they weren't supposed to be using. He still has the scar on his face to prove it.

"Really?" Altair raises an eyebrow, then shakes his head. "I don't even want to know what they're thinking on that Farm. But- basically that's what it feels like."

"Oh."

"And it hurts every single time."

Desmond puts his elbows on the table and leans forward so his chin is on his hands. "But if I don't learn how to do that, I pretty much can't go outside ever, right?"

Altair nods.

"Then I wanna learn."

Altair nods, like he's expected this. "Fair warning," he says. "I didn't want this to be a surprise."

He gets up and walks around the table, putting his hands on the place where Desmond's wings meet his back. "These are the important muscles," he says. "Do you feel that?"

Desmond nods- the muscles flex under Altair's hands in a way that feels not quite natural. It's the exact opposite of spreading them for flight, and Desmond can feel his wings shudder. "It feels weird," he complains.

"I know," Altair says. "Can you do that yourself though?"

Desmond nods, screwing up his eyes and focusing. It's not easy- sort of like bending an elbow backwards- but gradually he starts to get the hang of it. Encouraged, he pushes harder, and then there's a feeling like he's turning himself _inside out_ and a sharp, stabbing pain on both shoulders. It lasts for maybe half a minute, just long enough for Desmond to scream, and then it's gone, and there's a weird emptiness where his wings are supposed to be. Disbelieving, he reaches back and feels only empty air.

"Here," Altair says, and guides Desmond's hands until he can feel two raised bumps where his wings _should _be. Fresh scar tissue.

"Where do they go?" he asks, eventually. His wings should be too big to fit inside him. It's not like he has empty space just floating around inside there.

"I don't know," Altair says. "I don't really understand it myself."

"I can feel them," Desmond says. "But they're under my skin." It itches.

Altair nods. "I would recommend keeping them out unless you're going out somewhere."

"Yea," Desmond says, and spreads his wings. There's that same stabbing pain from before (this time, expecting the pain, he buries his face in his arms and manages to muffle the scream a little) and then, wings.

"Careful," Altair says, as Desmond's left wing comes flying out and hits him square in the face.

"S-sorry." He wipes tears away from his eyes, a little angrily, because he's tired of crying.

"It gets a little easier the more you do it," Altair says.

"Less painful?"

"Not really. You just get used to it."

"Oh," Desmond says, glumly. "Great."

-/-

The whole thing is painful and weird and takes Desmond another month of practice before he can stand to keep his wings hidden for longer than a few minutes. But after that, as his confidence grows, Desmond spends more and more of his time wandering the neighborhood, getting to know the area he's living in. The days are getting warmer, and it's a good way to spend a summer, especially after spending so much of the last few months.

The best part is meeting people. Actual, real life kids his own age, people that don't know anything about the assassins or wings or any of the weird stuff Desmond's gotten himself mixed up in. It feels awesome to pretend to be normal, just for a little while. But it feels just as awesome to wander off on his own and just fly, sometimes for hours at a time. Sometimes, one of the others will come with him, usually Altair, but Ezio too when he happens to be in town. And, once or twice, Connor.

It always kind of surprises Desmond when Connor shows up, because he's spent barely any time with the man. Connor is usually traveling, and always so quiet it's impossible to guess what he's thinking. Talking to him is like talking to a brick wall a lot of the time. It's hard to figure him out, and _still _no one will tell Desmond where Connor came from or what happened to him that's so bad.

Connor never really relaxes, but he gets as close as he apparently can when he's flying. On the ground, Connor is a tightly coiled spring, always watching, always ready for a fight. But when he's flying, Connor's body language changes completely. He's almost (but not quite) casual, still dangerous but in a different way. He's a bird of prey, a predator instead of the hunter he is on the ground.

Still, it's the most approachable Desmond ever sees him, and so one day, after they land, Desmond starts asking questions.

"Where are you from?"

Connor glances at him, then quickly away again. "East coast," he says. "Near Boston."

"What year?"

"The end of the eighteenth century."

"Were you an assassin?"

"I still am," Connor says, and looks at Desmond again, expression suddenly guarded. "What's this about?"

"Nothing special," Desmond says. "I just realized I don't know that much about you."

"There's a reason for that," Connor says. "I have… business I need to take care of before I can rest. When that's over-"

"Do you mean your dad?" Desmond interrupts, and knows immediately that he shouldn't have. The way Connor stiffens suddenly and clenches his fists is enough to tell him he's said something wrong. He'd asked it on a sort of hunch, because he's overheard Connor talking to Altair a few times, and he very badly wants to know what they're talking about.

Connor, on the other hand, apparently wants to keep it a secret. He doesn't say anything after that, and for a while they walk in absolute, awkward silence. Eventually their path takes them through the center of town, where Connor abruptly stops, right in the middle of the sidewalk so that Desmond actually walks into him.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

"Nothing," Connor says, but Desmond follows his gaze until he sees…

A pet store.

Desmond stares between Connor and the building, mind working furiously. He knows Connor isn't going to just tell him what's wrong, he's just not that kind of guy. And he knows that figuring this out is important, somehow, because this is a part of Connor that has nothing to do with his past or whatever fight he's so obsessed over.

The pet shop is small, a local place instead of one of the more common nationwide chains. Desmond had gone in once with a boy that lives down the street, and he remembers dogs in small pens under signs that say _inquire for price_. And he remembers something else, about where the dogs in that particular store are rumored to come from-

"What's a puppy mill?"

"It's a place where people with no morals and no respect for animals force dogs to have puppies over and over again until they're half dead and terrified of people. It's barbaric."

It's the most passion he's ever heard from Connor, and Desmond makes a mental note that Connor apparently likes animals. And he could have left it at that. He knows a little more about Connor now, and that's a step forward. But he doesn't leave it there.

"Hey Connor?"

"Yea?"

"How do we stop them?"

Connor raises an eyebrow, like he doesn't quite believe what he's just heard. Then, he nods.

-/-

Connor insists they wait until after midnight before making a move, and so they spend the next several hours filling time until the street is empty enough to move freely. Connor surprises Desmond by having a plan ready almost immediately. It's not a spectacular plan- basically it boils down to breaking into the store, freeing the dogs, and finding out where they're coming from. Desmond asks what they're going to do when they know that, and Connor actually smiles a little. It's a scary smile, and Desmond is suddenly glad Connor is on his side.

"Don't worry about it," he says.

"You sound like you do this a lot," Desmond says.

Connor snorts. "Altair says I have a thing for hopeless causes. He's probably right." He doesn't seem particularly bothered by the idea. Almost proud of it, actually.

And so time passes, mostly in silence. Connor seems perfectly happy with the quiet, but Desmond gets antsy. His wings itch under his skin, a persistent, burning feeling like sandpaper. Scratching only makes it worse, but Desmond has nothing else to do and spends about half an hour trying to scratch all the parts of his back he can't actually reach.

Connor puts his hand on Desmond's back and pushes.

"What are you doing?"

"Pressure works better than scratching," Connor explains. "Like with bug bites."

Desmond doesn't argue with this, because it actually does feel better. He also doesn't argue because he knows that Connor usually doesn't touch, and that for some reason, Connor has started to trust him. Just a little.

Connor coughs and rubs his hands together, and Desmond grins into the growing darkness. "You're weird," he says.

"I'm not the only one sitting on a roof waiting to break into a pet store," Connor says, with more than his usual sarcasm.

"Yea," Desmond says. "But I didn't say it was _bad _weird. Just… different. It's cool. I like it. I think-" But he stops there, because Connor is not good with feelings. It's something he has in common with Altair, actually. But at least Altair can let his guard down occasionally. Connor- he's so driven by whatever mission keeps sending him away to distant parts of the country that he can't relax. Not ever.

"What?" Connor asks. "What do you think?"

"I think that if you ever take care of… whatever you need to take care of… I think this would be fun to do again."

Connor shakes his head and stands. "It's time."

So Desmond follows him, and things go… pretty okay. Sort of. They get out before anyone can catch them, which is the good part. The bad part comes when they get home at two in the morning, tired and carting around armfuls of dogs. "What are we going to do with them?" Desmond asks, but before Connor has a chance to answer, he hears Altair's voice from upstairs. He glances up and sees the man at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister and surveying the two of them with an expression of amused disbelief.

"That's a good question," he says. "A better one would be what happened tonight?"

"Um…"

"It's a long story," Connor says. One of the dogs runs up the stairs and sniffs enthusiastically at Altair's legs. Then it makes a happy animal noise and lies down on top of the man's feet.

It's just been that kind of a night.


	7. Chapter 6

The Pet Store Incident, as it comes to be known, has far-reaching effects.

First, Connor starts visiting a lot more. Not quite as much as Ezio, who's still in and out of the house every other week or so, but more. Desmond's pretty sure it's not completely Connor's idea (he overhears Altair telling him that if he has the time to break into pet stores and break out seventeen dogs and one very confused cat, he definitely has the time to come stay once in a while). But Connor doesn't argue, either, so maybe he's okay with the idea.

Second, one of the dogs moves in. It's never really planned, but as the dogs start to vanish one by one, into new homes or safe places, one in particular seems to decide that it likes life at the house just fine. He's a German Shepard, intelligent for a dog, but prone to falling asleep in weird places. The rest of the rescued animals have problems with the wings, cowering whenever they see them, but Dog (as they end up calling him, more or less on accident) doesn't even seem to notice.

And third, Desmond gets sentenced to public education. It probably would have happened anyway, because keeping him out of school would have been a red flag to anyone paying attention that something is wrong. But if not for the Pet Store Incident, he might have had another year before getting packed off to the local elementary school.

He's nine by this point, and so he starts off in the fourth grade. Desmond's never been to school before, although he'd had some education on the Farm. Basic reading, some addition, and a wide range of weapons. The last part, predictably, is useless in the classroom, but it turns out Desmond is hopelessly behind on his academics.

He's not the slowest in the class, but he's pretty close. A month into the school year, his teacher sends a note home saying she wants to talk to his parents. Of course, his parents are somewhere in the middle of nowhere, living on a farm and fighting a secret, centuries old war.

So Desmond brings the note to Altair, fidgeting nervously as the man reads it, expecting to get into some serious trouble. But Altair only says, "You're failing your classes?"

"No," Desmond mutters. He's not doing as well as he should be, but it's embarrassing to admit. He wants Altair to be proud of him. He doesn't want to be the kind of a problem that can't pass the fourth grade on his own.

Altair reaches one wing out and hits Desmond around the head. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to knock him off balance a little. "Next time," he says. "Ask for help."

Desmond has never seen Altair ask for help with anything before now, not even in the winter when it snowed three days straight and Altair spent most of that time on the driveway with a shovel. He's possibly the most unbelievably stubborn man Desmond has ever met, but he recognizes that this is not the time to point that out. "Okay," he says. "I will next time."

Altair nods, then glances back down at the note. "I'm still going to have to talk to your teacher, though."

"But she wants to see my parents," Desmond argues. "You're not my dad." And that's sad, because Altair is more like family than his parents had ever been. "I can't just bring you in to meet my teacher and expect her to believe we're related."

Connor- who's in town again, waiting to hear back on some lead or other- chooses that moment to break into the conversation (and Desmond wonders if he's been listening the whole time, or if he just happens to be passing through the room now). "You're not serious, are you?" he asks.

"What?"

"The two of you would be identical if you were the same age," Connor says. "You look so alike I'm surprised you're _not _related."

Desmond has no idea what to say to that, and apparently Altair doesn't either, because the conversation ends there. No one says anything at all about the idea of family for the rest of the day. And if Desmond spends a little longer than usual in the bathroom that night, studying every detail of his face and feeling a warm thrill of belonging every time he recognizes some echo of Altair's features in his own…

Well, no one say anything about that, either.

-/-

Desmond isn't allowed inside the classroom while his teacher 'discusses' things with Altair. He thinks it's kind of funny that he's not allowed to hear them talking about him, and he figures that if it's important Altair will tell him about it later.

It's 3:00, after all the other students have been picked up by parents or buses. Even the kids that walk home are gone, and Desmond is left alone on the blacktop outside. He spends a few minutes just waiting, in case the meeting goes quickly, but it doesn't and before long he's _bored_. It's even worse because the weather is perfect for flying, and if he wasn't stuck at school he'd be up in the air right now. The wind whips his hair around and Desmond scowls into the empty air. He feels like the wind is teasing him.

"Stop it," he mutters, flattening his hair with both hands.

"Talking to yourself?"

Desmond spins around so fast he nearly falls over. He hadn't heard anyone come up behind him but suddenly there's a man there, only a few feet behind him, looking at him with an expression of vague amusement. He's dark haired with, with a serious face that looks familiar in a way Desmond can't quite place. He's in his mid-twenties, around the same age as Connor, probably, and judging by his accent, he's English.

"Sort of," Desmond mutters. There's something about this man that doesn't fit here, and Desmond can't exactly explain to himself what it is.

"What's your name?" the man asks.

"Desmond."

The man smiles. "And is this your school, Desmond?"

Desmond nods, and it suddenly occurs to him to look the man over in eagle vision- but he shows up blue like an ally rather than the red he had expected. "What are you doing here?"

The man tries to smile, but there's something else in his face, some worry or fear that keeps the expression from being convincing.

"I need you to do me a favor,"

"…what?"

"Carry a message for me," the man says, and he moves forward before Desmond has a chance to react. He's not sure what he's expecting, honestly, but the man only pushes a folded up piece of paper into Desmond's hand.

Desmond nods at him- anything to get away more quickly. "Good boy," the stranger says, and Desmond scowls.

"I'm not a dog," he mutters, and the man gives a quick snort of laughter, surprised but amused.

"Of course not," he says. "I-"

"Get away from him!"

Desmond gasps and stumbles backward, more surprised by the sound of Altair's voice, _afraid_, than the sight of him leaping at the stranger. They fight, and it's like nothing Desmond's ever seen before, not even at the Farm where people would spar with just about every weapon imaginable, all day and most of the night.

These two fight on a different level altogether, and Desmond finds himself too scared to do anything but scramble backward and away, terrified that he'll get in their way. He'd known that Altair was (is) an assassin, but this is the first time he's seen the man in action. The things he can do go above and beyond anything Desmond had expected from him, but the stranger is only slightly less skilled, and Desmond can easily imagine the fight going on for a while.

No sooner has this thought crossed his mind than the stranger draws back, weapons dropping to his side. "Do you really want to do this here?" he asks. "Now? In the middle of an elementary school parking lot?" He gestures at the building. "They keep security cameras here, you know. For the safety of the children, and all that."

"Get out of here," Altair snaps. "Leave town. Don't come back. And if you ever come near Desmond again-"

The man clicks his tongue in impatient disapproval. "Do you really think so badly of me?" he asks. "That I would harm a child?"

"Absolutely," Altair says. "I'm serious. Leave."

The man bows, somehow managing to convey a complete lack of respect in the single movement, and leaves. Altair watches him go, and as soon as he's out of sight turns and crouches next to Desmond.

"Are you alright?" he demands. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," Desmond says, but the way his body won't stop shaking makes the lie almost useless. "What just happened? I don't understand-"

"It's alright," Altair says. "He's gone now."

"No!" Desmond says, pulling away from Altair, far enough to let him glare at the man. "I want to know what's going on. Who was that guy? What did he want?"

Altair chews this over for a few seconds, studying Desmond intently. He keeps his face very serious and very intense, even though what he really wants to do is back down and allow himself to be comforted. Finally, Altair nods. "Alright," he says. "But wait until we're home. I need to take care of a few things, and this isn't a conversation we should have in the open."

-/-

Altair has a quick, hurried conversation with Connor when they get home. Desmond is in the next room, too far away to hear what they're saying, but Connor's face goes dark as a storm cloud, and he hurries away and out of the house. Only after he's gone does Altair call Desmond over to him, and start his explanation.

"So?" Desmond asks, when an awkward silence threatens to grow between them. "Who was that guy?"

"His name," Altair says slowly, "Is Haytham Kenway. Connor's father."

"What?" Desmond laughs, but it looks like Altair is being absolutely serious. "You're not joking."

"I'm not."

"But… he's the same age as Connor," Desmond says. "How does that work?"

And now Altair does smile, although it's a thin, unhappy expression. "Desmond," he says. "If you're going to start trying to understand time travel, I'd advise you to give up now."

"Why did you fight him?"

"That's a long story," Altair says. "Not particularly pleasant and honestly, if you want to hear that, I'd rather it was Connor that told you. For now, all you need to know is that Haytham… we used to think he was one of us. He has wings too. But he betrayed us, and killed one of us. Connor's been hunting him ever since, but this is the first we've seen of him in years."

Desmond shivers, goose bumps rising on his arms, and he's torn between wanting to know more, and wanting to forget everything he's just learned. Curiosity wins, in the end. "So if you haven't seen him in so long, what made him come here?"

"I can't know for sure," Altair says. "But I do have a theory."

"What?"

"He probably came for you."

Desmond feels a weird chill go through him then, and he shivers. "Why would he want me?" he asks. "I don't even know him."

"Exactly," Altair says. "You weren't around when- everything happened." Desmond opens his mouth to ask _what actually happened_, but Altair doesn't give him the chance. And anyway, it's not like he would have given a straight answer. "And you're young. He thinks you can be convinced to change sides. Haytham's a templar-" and Desmond starts, because that's new information- "But that doesn't mean he's an idiot. Far from it- by now, he'll have learned that you've run away from the Farm, and he'll think that means you can be persuaded to join him. And since you're staying here he must already have figured out you have wings, which means you're worth the effort."

"Oh," Desmond says. He doesn't want to be worth the effort. That means Haytham will come back, and Altair might not be there to be Desmond's protector next time. "Can you… teach me how to fight?" he asks. "Or… I don't know. Run. Or hide." He doesn't believe for a second that he would actually have a hope of winning against Haytham in a fight. "Whatever it takes."

Altair nods, seeming to lose some of the tenseness that he's had ever since first seeing Haytham. "I really hoped you'd ask," he says. "We'll start this weekend."

"Okay," Desmond says, trying not to think too hard about the Farm. This won't be like the relentless, vicious fighting there. It _has_ to be different, because the people here are different.

"Anyway," Altair says. "It's getting late, and I'm sure you have homework."

"What?" Desmond whines. "After everything that happened today?"

"You still have to pass," Altair says, and suddenly the tone of the conversation shifts. They could have been two completely normal people in any family in America. It's weirdly reassuring, and Desmond actually feels a little bit better. "I did have to go talk to your teacher today, remember, and she told me you'd be doing a lot better if you actually did all your assignments."

Desmond makes a face, but nods and heads upstairs. He stops, though, with his foot on the bottom step and turns back. "Is there a way for someone to look like an ally in eagle vision?" he asks. "Even if they're an enemy?"

"Of course," Altair says. "It's a useful tool, but it's not foolproof. It can be tricked, if you know how to do it."

"How?"

"It's an indication of how people feel toward you at a particular moment," Altair says. "Normally that's very effective, because most people won't be your friend one minute and trying to kill you the next. But if you have an enemy, and you happen to temporarily have a common goal, for example, they'll show up blue. Even if they'd as soon kill you as look at you. Or if you really, truly believe that they're an ally, then that will make them look like one. There are lots of tricks like that, but most people would never think of them. Why do you ask?"

"At school," Desmond says. "When I saw Haytham…"

"Ah," Altair says. "That's easy to explain. If he wants to convert you to his side, he has a vested interest in keeping you safe. He's got eagle vision too, he knows how it works, and he'll keep his focus on protecting you so he'll look like an ally."

"Okay," Desmond says, frowning. "Thanks. I guess." Honestly, all that sounds a lot creepier than if Haytham had just wanted to kill him.

Desmond goes to his room without asking any more questions he doesn't want the answers to, and tries to get his homework done. Really, he does try, but multiplication tables can only hold his attention for so long. Before long, he's thinking about Haytham again. Desmond is still desperate for answers, even more so after everything he's seen today. Haytham isn't at all what he'd been expecting. From the dark comments everyone keep making about him, he'd thought Haytham would be some mustache twirling villain out of a comic book. Only, he hadn't been. If anything, he'd seemed… uncertain. Maybe even a little desperate (but for what?). Desmond keeps remembering the look on his face, trying to smile but not quite managing. Not even a false one.

And then suddenly he thinks of the paper Haytham had given him, and almost dives for his backpack where it sits on his bed on the other side of the room. The paper is still in the pocket where he'd stuffed it earlier- he's completely forgotten it, hasn't even looked at it, but he pulls it out now. He's determined to find out something about what had happened between Haytham and the others, no matter how vague.

The paper feels strange, thick and rough under Desmond's eager fingers, more like parchment than paper now that he thinks about it. The paper's dirty too, grubby and stained with mud and ink. It opens without effort, like it's been folded and unfolded and refolded over and over again. The creases are almost worn through, and Desmond has to be careful not to tear the parchment.

When it's finally lying flat in his hands, though, Desmond can only stare uncomprehendingly. The whole thing is a mess, covered in scrawled notes and doodles. A lot of doesn't make sense to Desmond- most of the notes look like they're comments on whatever was going on around them at the time. There are little conversations, complaints about food or the weather or whatever. They remind Desmond of the notes he passes to his classmates when lessons get more boring than usual.

He's just noticed that there are three sets of handwriting on the parchment when he hears a sharp intake of breath from the doorway and looks up to see Connor. He looks pale as a ghost, not at all like his normal self. "Where…" he swallows, and tries again. "Where did you get that?"

"From your dad," Desmond says. "He gave it to me and said it was a message, only he never said who the message was for-"

"It's for me," Connor says, and he crosses the room in three quick strides, sitting on the bed next to Desmond.

"What is it?" Desmond asks, passing the paper over to Connor. "It doesn't look like anything special."

"It's not," Connor says. "I mean- it is, but… only to me."

"But why?" Desmond demands, almost shouting. He's tired of being left in the dark and scared of what will happen if (when) Haytham comes back.

"That's a long story," Connor says. "And I'm not sure I can tell it."

"But-"

"You're right, though," Connor interrupts. "You have a right to know." He looks down at the parchment in his hands, his frown deepening. "I'll talk to Altair tonight. He's better at explaining, anyway. This time tomorrow, I promise you'll know everything."


	8. Interlude 2: Part 1

Altair isn't exactly surprised when Connor wanders downstairs, his face roughly the same color as day old oatmeal, wings drooping so that they nearly touch the ground. "You didn't catch him, then?" he asks, and kicks out a chair on the other side of the table. Connor drops into it without waiting to be asked.

"No," he growls. "And I don't know how long he's been in town, how he got in, or how he got back out." He slams his fist onto the table and stares at it like it holds all the answers of the universe. "I can't believe him," he goes on. "Why would he come here? He obviously knows we're here, and he just walks into the middle of town, and then leaves without actually doing anything." He passes Altair a sheet of parchment across the table, frowning as he does so.

"This is- where did you get it from?"

"From Desmond," Connor says. "Haytham gave it to him to pass along to me." He sighs, rubs at his face. "I can't believe he kept it all this time."

Altair says nothing. He's not good at offering comfort, and Connor's too proud to admit that he needs it, anyway. Instead, he says, "You know him better than the rest of us. Why would he give it back to you now?"

"I have no idea," Connor says. "None at all…" he trails off, going silent for so long that Altair starts to worry. Connor has always been quiet, but this is something more serious. And far more concerning.

"So-"

"We need to tell Desmond," Connor says abruptly. "I know none of us want to talk about it, but after today I think keeping him in the dark is going to put him in danger."

"I agree," Altair sighs. "And I assume when you say we need to tell Desmond, you mean that I should talk to him."

"Well…" he gives Altair a sheepish expression. "I did sort of promise him."

"Then that settles it," Altair says. "I'll tell him tomorrow."

Connor mutters his thanks and excuses himself before Altair can say anything. Not that he's sure what he would have said, anyway. He's not sure about a lot of things, actually, and spends the rest of the night wide awake and mulling over the best way to explain all this to Desmond in the morning.

The worst part is that most of it isn't all that bad. For a while, everything had gone pretty much perfectly. There had been five of them then, five accidents of time and space with wings and hollow bones, traveling the countryside and fighting for something important.

It had all gone so wrong so fast that Altair still has trouble believing it's true. There are mornings that he still wakes up half expecting to come down downstairs and see Haytham making snarky comments, or Edward laughing at some stupid joke like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

He still hasn't exactly decided what to say when Desmond comes down the next morning. It's barely six, still dark outside, but Desmond looks awake and absolutely determined to get his answers. He sits in the same chair that Connor had occupied the night before, perched nervously on the edge like he's about to take flight. His wings are out, but held stiffly a little way away from his body. He looks nearly as tense as Altair feels, but he's too young and inexperienced to hide it well. Still, this Desmond, who is bold enough to demand answers over and over again until he finally gets them, is a far cry from the terrified hatchling that had first come to the house over a year ago, and Altair feels an unexpected surge of pride.

"Alright," he says. "Get comfortable. It's a long story."

-/-

Altair isn't surprised when he wakes up in another century (again) but Ezio definitely is. Altair watches him spin round in shock, staring at everything like this is a whole new world, and just barely manages not to laugh.

Not that this isn't kind of a surprise for him, too- like last time, there had been no sign everything was about to change until it actually happens, only that same, strange, golden glow in his wings and Ezio's.

And this is a pretty extreme change- yesterday had been a cold, wintry day in fifteenth century Florence. This place is obviously not Florence, and it's not winter, either. They won't know it until later, but this is the city of Nassau, in the Caribbean, and the year is 1714.

Altair is twenty two years old- Ezio is nineteen. Edward, when they stumble on him a few days after arriving, is twenty one. Not that they know who he is or why he's important, of course. Ezio bumps- literally- into him at a tavern one night, and Edward (who's had a bottle or two already) hits him. So of course Ezio fights back.

Altair doesn't know anything about it until the next morning, when he finds them on the street, hung over and covered in chicken feathers, but apparently getting along marvelously despite their rocky start and lack of common language. He never exactly finds out what happened that night- the other two claim they can't remember- but from then on, it seems like Edward is always hanging around, whenever he's not at sea.

At that point, Altair doesn't much care for Edward. Especially as he gradually masters English, because a lot of what Edward says seems specifically designed to annoy him. The man is selfish and obsessed with gold, prone to making rash decisions and boasting loudly if they happen to turn out well for him.

But that's not what really has Altair bothered.

"He has a hidden blade," Altair complains to Ezio, not long after Edward has started wearing the weapon.

"So he doesn't know what it means," Ezio protests. "That doesn't mean he's a bad person."

"It means I don't like him."

He does his best to avoid Edward, traveling much of the area, distracting himself by helping the assassins however he can. He always keeps to the shadows, though, making sure neither side knows who he is or why he acts the way he does. Much like in Italy, he feels that his own time has passed, and he no longer has the right to claim center stage.

But if Altair still considers being an assassin his main job, he knows he has a second one now, one much more personal than the first. He knows now, thanks to Ezio and the codex he'd showed him, that he shouldn't be in this century at all. He should have stayed in Masyaf, and done… something. Honestly, that's exactly the problem. His own life is a mystery to him, a part of a distant, unreachable past. And he wants desperately to find out the truth.

So all the time he's traveling, he's also searching for answers. And that's why, against his better judgment, he eventually goes to Tulum. It's the closest assassin headquarters to where Altair is now, making it the logical firs place to go looking.

Still, Altair know he has to move carefully. Being caught in Tulum would be bad. There would be questions, the kind he didn't really want to answer. If he's unlucky they might decide he's a templar, just because he's where he's not supposed to be.

Ezio, when he first hears Altair's plan, tells him it's too risky. But then, Ezio has his own distractions. He's learned about a place called the observatory from Edward, and through that, about a precursor society with impossible technologies. Ezio's half convinced that these technologies are the only possible explanation for what's happened to them. So he's too busy with the hung for these marvels, looking for his own answers, to care much about what Altair's doing.

So Altair ignores his advice, and goes anyway.

The island is full of assassins, and for a while Altair just sits in the upper branches of a tree and just watches. This place, with its bright colors and constant sounds of crashing waves and smells of salt water, could not possibly look less like Masyaf. Somehow, the sound of an instructor berating his novices, the familiar hooded white robes- manages to make him homesick anyway.

He waits until the sun is directly overhead, then spreads his wings and takes flight. Anyone looking up will be half blinded by the sun, and will only see him as a bird shaped blur in the sky. No one will think for a second that he's human, and that suits Altair perfectly.

He flies inland, bypassing the larger assassin clusters, finally landing in an area that's almost deserted. Altair can only see two people around, and they're too absorbed in their own conversation to notice him.

"-not natural," one of them is saying as Altair lands, and he turns sharply toward the pair. He knows that voice. James Kidd is one of Edward's more bearable friends, but still not someone he would have expected to see here. "I think he might be about to die."

"There's nothing we can do," the other man- this one a stranger- says. "We've given Kenway what we can." He doesn't sound happy. "Even after everything he's done."

"What if it's contagious?" Kidd asks.

"No one else has his… symptoms," the stranger says, and Altair can hear the hesitation before he says symptoms, like he's not quite sure that's the right word. "I've never seen anything like that."

"No," Kidd says. "Looks like his whole back's about to tear itself apart."

They've moved too far from Altair's hiding place for him to hear anything else, but he doesn't need to know the rest of the conversation to figure out exactly what's going on. When he's absolutely sure the two assassins are gone, Altair curses quietly and bites his lip. First of all, Edward should not be here. And second, the illness he apparently has-

It's always possible that this isn't Edward growing wings. Altair's no doctor, he doesn't know every disease there is in the world. But with the kind of luck he's had lately, Altair has no doubt that this is exactly what it seems.

For a second, he's torn between doing what he came here for and going after Edward. He's none of Altair's responsibility. Not an assassin, not even someone he likes particularly well. Finally, though, he bites back a curse and goes looking for Edward. Unfortunately, it looks like answers will have to wait.

Edward, luckily enough, is in a part of the island that's almost empty. It doesn't take long to find him. Kidd and the other man (the mentor, Ah Tabai, as Altair learns while trying to find Edward) aren't the only ones talking about Edward. The whole island is abuzz with rumor and gossip.

Inhuman, they say. Monster. And Altair remembers- with a stab of unexpected pity- growing his wings back in Masyaf, and the horrified reactions of the people around him. It's not a good memory, and he'd rather not see it played out again here. Altair suddenly feels a lot less reluctant to go help Edward.

There are two guards outside the building Altair finally identifies as Edward's, more observant than Altair expects from men on watch in this distant corner of the island. It takes Altair nearly half an hour before he finds a way past them without alerting either of them to his presence, but eventually he does manage. Inside, Edward is alone in a room that looks like it's normally used for storage.

And more importantly, it's clear that Altair has come just in time. Edward's on the ground, unconscious but not feverish when he bends to check, and his wings are splayed around him in a clumsy pattern. There's a sickly sweet smell of pus and blood and sweat in the air, one that Altair remembers from when Ezio's wings came in. It hits something base and instinctive in the back of his mind, something telling him that Edward, right now, needs protecting. His wings are new, and unknown, and that makes him fragile.

Part of Altair wants to shake it off as ridiculous. He knows Edward, knows he can take care of himself. But he can't quite shake off this ridiculous instinct to help and protect and guard, and when the door opens he reacts without thinking. His wings are already out but now he spreads them to their full span, turning around to face the newcomer with a face like thunder.

One of the guards is in the doorway, a tray of food on the floor where it's dropped from numb hands, and he's staring at Altair like he's never seen anything like him before. Which, more than likely, he hasn't. There can't be too many people with wings around.

"Leave," Altair growls, and the man makes a noise like a startled chicken before running for his life.

There's a low moaning noise from just behind him, and Altair turns back to see Edward has woken during the brief confrontation. He's curled into a ball on the ground, arms wrapped around his chest, wings still drooping behind him. And then Edward's shoulders start to shake, and he's crying. Altair stands guard between him and the outside world for the long hours it takes him to calm down again.

-/-

Altair drums his fingers against the dining room table, half lost in his memories. Eventually, Desmond gets impatient.

"What happened next?" he asks.

"Nothing too exciting," Altair says. "We were on Tulum for a long time after Edward's wings came in. It took him a long time to get control over them, because he was stubborn, and he preferred sailing to flying. We talked a lot. I realized I'd probably judged Edward too harshly, and he eventually ended up an assassin. Things went pretty well for as long as we were in that time."

"And then what?" Desmond asks, determined as ever to get answers. "You time travelled again?"

"Yes," Altair says, and glances up at the clock. "But I think that part will have to wait."

"What?" Desmond frowns, and crosses his arms over his chest. "You didn't even get to Haytham or Connor yet. I thought that was the whole point!"

"You're going to be late for school," Altair says.

"But-"

"And you need to know about Edward before you can understand what happened with Haytham and Connor," Altair continues. "I will tell you the rest after school, but you still need to go."

Desmond grumbles under his breath, but eventually he goes. Altair watches him, trying to ignore the guilty weight in the back of his mind. It is true that Desmond should be at school, but more importantly he just… can't go on. Not right now.

There's something he knows now that it had taken him a long time to recognize. Not until after Edward died, really. He'd been the first one with wings, and he'd been there for each of the others as their wings came in, or very soon after. In some way he can barely understand himself, they are his responsibility. His job- his only job, his most important job- is to keep them alive, and well, and hidden from a world that wants very much to do them harm. Once, he would have thought his role as an assassin is the most important work he can do. These days, he spends most of his time indoors, writing and researching and watching over his brood. And somehow, he's happy with that.

But this sense of responsibility is exactly what makes it very hard to admit that he made a mistake in trusting Haytham. And that mistake had cost Edward his life.

Altair spends the rest of the day wandering the house, halfheartedly trying to get his work done while time ticks ever onward. And later, when Desmond comes home and heads straight for him, face set in a stubborn expression that says plainly he's not going to take no for an answer, Altair gives him the rest of the story.

**-/-**

**Flashback ended up going a little longer than I expected- sorry about that, I'll try to get it wrapped up in the next chapter.**


	9. Interlude 2: Part 2

Not even Edward is surprised after the next bout of time travel. It's his first time, obviously, but instead of being upset he seems mostly just excited.

"You have to calm down," Altair told him after a few very annoying days of this. They're in England this time, a rainy, dark place that comes as a nasty surprise after three years of Caribbean sun. And they're only about two decades farther into the future than they had been- maybe it's just a sign that Altair's becoming jaded, but he catches himself wondering what the point of twenty years even is.

"Why?" Edward asks. "This is cool."

"It's cold," Ezio corrects, and Altair can't blame him for complaining. They've all gotten used to having their wings out all the time, as long as no one else is around. It's more comfortable, but the weather here is too damp to ever take them out- one terrible experience of soaked through feathers is enough to effectively ground the trio.

"It's not that cold," Edward protests, rather ineffectively. It starts snowing as soon as he speaks, and he scowls good naturedly up at the clouds.

"Really?" Altair says.

"Alright," Edward admits. "It's a little cold."

Ezio says something rude about the snow, under his breath and in Italian. Edward- who doesn't know a word of the language- ignores him, but Altair gives him a look as they hurry for the nearest shelter.

They find it in a public house at the other end of the block, already packed to the rafters with other men (and a few women and even children, for that matter) avoiding the cold outside. It's not as bad as it could have been, though- looking around, Altair sees more plates of food than mugs of beer, and guesses that's the likely reason for the relative calm. It is loud, though, and busy enough for the three of them to stay unnoticed.

Mostly unnoticed.

After five or ten minutes Edward says, "Someone's watching us."

"Watching you, I think," Altair corrects. He's already noticed the boy, a few yards away and staring unabashedly at Edward. The kid's dark haired, with sad eyes and the lanky look of someone going through a growth spurt. His eyes track every single move Edward makes, and he's gripping the table in front of him with a worrying intensity. "I think he knows you."

"I don't know him," Edward objects.

"Time travel," Ezio says, glancing at the boy as well.

"What?"

"Um…" Ezio bites his lower lip and glances at Altair, who gestures at him to go ahead. "The way I understand it, time split at some point. Instead of one universe, there's two now. Or more. I think time probably splits all the time, only we never know about it because we only ever see the one we're living in.

"Anyway, in one universe, you have wings, and in the other one, you don't. When the version of you with wings went to the future, you- we- came to the future in the universe of the other you. The one that doesn't have wings."

"Oh," Edward twists his face up, trying to understand. "So there's another one of me out there?"

"Yep."

"And that kid knows the… other me?"

"If we're understanding it right," Altair says. Then: "I'm going to go talk to him."

He makes the decision for two reasons- first, because this could be a chance to prove their time travel theory correct. And second, because the boy looks like he's just seen something impossible, and Altair wants to know why.

Edward offers to come alone, but Altair waves him away. He doesn't need that kind of confusion added to the upcoming conversation.

The boy stiffens as Altair sits down across the table from him, and Altair watches his eyes flick between his own face and Edward's before he finally manages to pay attention to the conversation. "Who are you?" the boy asks, eventually.

"Altair," he says, and leaves it at that. The boy looks briefly confused- a reaction Altair has grown more than used to since leaving his homeland- but shrugs it off.

"Who's that man that came in with you?" he asks, and Altair is not at all surprised to see he's looking at Edward again.

"Who are _you_?" Altair asks, instead of answering.

The boy doesn't answer right away, but eventually he manages a surly, "Haytham." And this time, Altair is the one surprised- he hadn't expected an Arabic name from such an obviously English boy, and it throws him more than it should. "So?" Haytham asks, a shade impatiently. "Who is he?"

"His name's Edward," Altair says, and Haytham gives an apparently involuntary noise of surprise.

"Kenway?" he asks, in a voice that's barely audible in the din around them.

Altair nods. "Do you now him?"

"He's my father," Haytham says. ""And he's dead."

Altair is very tempted to get up from the table and walk out before this goes any farther. Just leave London, and its unexpected discoveries and perpetual rain. It would be easy- there are lots of places to hide in the world, and the three of them have a talent for it.

Then he looks at Haytham, at the desperate, pleading look on his face. And Altair doesn't leave.

"He's not dead, is he?" Haytham asks. "But I- I saw him- he died right in front of me. How..?"

"It's hard to explain," Altair says.

"Try."

It's not a question, not a request, and normally Altair would argue and be stubborn just because of the tone. But this isn't a typical situation, and so he ignores the demand in Haytham's voice and explains in as few details as he can. Later, if Haytham isn't scared off by then, he'll go back and fill in the missing pieces.

"So," Haytham says when Altair's finished. "He's not really my father." He hunches his shoulders and seems to draw into himself a little, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"Not exactly," Altair says. "He's… who your father might have been. If things had gone differently." He hasn't explained the wings yet, and isn't sure he wants to. That should probably be Edward's job, and anyway, it doesn't look like Haytham can stand any more surprises tonight.

"Can I meet him?" Haytham asks. "I mean-"

"Yea," Altair says. "I'll talk to him."

But Haytham is right on Altair's heels when he crosses the room back to Edward and Ezio, both of whom are watching with obvious interest. He doesn't back off when Altair explains, in quick, terse words what he'd found out from Haytham.

Ezio mumbles some excuse to leave and catches Altair by the elbow. "Come on," he says. "This is their business."

Edward looks like he's just been shot in the stomach, his mouth open in an almost comical look of surprise. Part of Altair, the part that's gotten used to watching out for the others, wants to stay and make everything right. But they deserve their privacy, so Altair follows Ezio's advice, retreating with him to the other side of the room. There, they find an uncrowded corner and speak in hushed voices. "He's a templar," Ezio says at once. "Did you see him in eagle vision? Bright red."

Altair hasn't actually checked- he's not in the habit of looking to see if every random stranger he meets is happens to be a templar- but he does now. He half turns in his chair for a better look, frowning at the sight. Edward has apparently gotten over his surprise, and is gesticulating widely, apparently in the middle of some tall tale. Haytham is leaning forward, an expression of rapt attention on his face. "Yes," Altair says. "But…"

"What?"

"That's his father," Altair says. He doesn't turn to look at Ezio, keeping his eyes fixed on Haytham instead. "How would you feel if you got the chance to see your family again? Even if they were part of a group that was supposed to be your enemy?"

He knows even as he says it that this is low. Ezio is- always has been- sensitive about the death of his parents. It's what drives him, even now, years (and, in some sense, centuries) later. But he's trying to prove a point here, because Haytham looks nothing like the homicidal templar Ezio seems to be imagining. He might still be their enemy, but he deserves half a chance at least.

Ezio doesn't answer- he has a right not to, after that- but he doesn't complain about Haytham again. And, as months go by- as Haytham spends more time with them and less with the templars- his color in eagle vision fades from bright red to a pale pink, and eventually changes to blue.

No one is more relieved than Edward, who takes to his unexpected role of fatherhood with surprising enthusiasm. Of course, thanks to the complexities of time travel, there's only a nine year age gap between the two of them, so their relationship is almost more brotherly than anything else.

Still, when Haytham's wings come in later that year, Edward's the one who stays with him through the fever. And when Haytham panics (understandably, because he hadn't known about the others' wings until then), Edward hold him and doesn't let go until the boy is calm again. He teaches him to preen, to fly, to hide his wings. Over the next couple years, Haytham becomes increasingly comfortable in their group, the four of them become something more like family.

Until then, they'd been just a group of people thrown together by chance. They're the only people in the world- as far as they know- with wings, and stuck in the wrong century on top of that. Relying on each other is the best way to survive. But with Edward and Haytham trying so hard to be family, and Altair and Ezio always hanging around the pair, it's so easy to just let it happen to all of them.

And then they travel another forty years into the future.

-/-

Altair stops then, thinking of how best to go on. It's not that there's any confusion over what happened back then. It had all been fairly straightforward, honestly, and Altair can remember the entire sequence of events vividly. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can still see Edward's body, broken and bleeding and beaten in a way that he'd never done anything to deserve. It wasn't that he was the best man that had ever walked the Earth. Far from it. But he didn't deserve what happened to him.

There are few people anywhere that deserve that.

Connor- who has been leaning against the wall behind Desmond, listening carefully to every word of Altair's story- interrupts his train of thought. "I'll do it," he says.

"You said you didn't want to," Altair says.

"I've changed my mind," Connor says. He speaks in the same level tone he always uses, but there's a stubborn look in his eyes that Altair doesn't quite like. He's seen that look a dozen times, usually before Connor does something he hasn't bothered to think all the way through. Probably he's decided this is his duty to explain. There's no way he wants to talk about this, but he's not going to let Altair talk him out of it either.

He tries anyway.

"You don't have to," he says. "I can tell that story as well as you can."

Between them, Desmond watches the conversation with wide eyes, tense and clearly picking up on the atmosphere of the room. He looks nervous, so when Connor doesn't seem ready to back down, Altair just gives in. He doesn't want to start a fight now, with Desmond around. "Fine," he says. "You can tell it, then."


	10. Interlude 2: Part 3

Connor is four when his mother dies, thirteen when he starts training as an assassin, and seventeen when he his wings grow in.

He doesn't believe it at first, of course. He's just had a horrible bout of fever, and it's been so long since anything goo happened, that it's easy to dismiss the wings as just a hallucination. It's not until later, when Achilles walks in on him and is just left absolutely speechless at the sight, that Connor understands that they're real.

After that, everything changes. For the first time since Connor had been a very small child, he's happy. On the day he left his village, he'd gone on a spirit journey where he'd been given the form of an eagle. This is like that, only _better_, because he has his own body and his own wings.

He has wings.

Whenever Connor has free time from then on, he climbs something tall and launches himself from it, teaching himself to fly by sheer stubborn persistence. He makes a lot of mistakes- all too often, he comes home covered in cuts and bruises. But he's always happy at the end of the day, and determined to do better with his next try.

The first time he manages to stay airborne for more than a few seconds, it's the best day of his life.

Through trial and error, he learns the best way to keep his wings clean, and how to exercise to make them as strong as possible. He relies on them the way he would any other limb, and he wants them to be healthy when he needs them. After that, more or less by accident, he figures out the trick to hiding his wings, and masters that, too. He hates it, but he knows that his color and his features already make him stand out enough. Whenever he goes into the city, he keeps his wings hidden, but when he's in the homestead he never does. Those days are good ones, and for once it seems like everything is going to end well.

Then, when he's eighteen, Connor happens to look out his window just in time to see someone else in the air. It's clearly a person, but he's too far away to make out a face. Connor is through the window and in the air himself before he has time to think it through, chasing after the stranger as fast as he can go.

But not quite quickly enough. His quarry is still faster, and before long Connor has lost him entirely. The land below him is heavily forested, and after a moment's consideration Connor decides there are more places for the stranger to be hiding on the ground than in the air, so he lands.

There are footprints on the ground, human but strange- they barely leave an impression on the undergrowth, as if the person that made the prints is lighter than they should have been. Connor feels a thrill of excitement course through him, but tamps it down. The only thing he knows about this person is that they have wings. He doesn't have any idea if they're an enemy or a friend or just a person that wants to be left alone. So, cautiously, he follows the prints.

After five minutes or so, he rounds the side of an unusually large tree and comes face to face with the person he's been tracking.

He freezes, wings half spread behind him in position to take off if the stranger tries to flee, but he does no such thing. The stranger looks just as surprised as Connor, and with his own wings thrown back in almost the exact same position, they could have been mirror images of each other.

The stranger looks no older than Connor, with the same dark hair tied back from his face in just the same manner. And, now that Connor has had a chance to take in more details, he realizes that there are similarities there, too. The stranger's face is paler and thinner, but there's a definite resemblance. And more than that, Connor feels like he's seen him somewhere before.

The stranger relaxes first, although not a lot. "Why are you following me?"

Connor feels his face go bright red- he's been so intent on the chase that he hadn't even thought about how obvious he'd been. And to make matters worse, he has no answer ready. He can't admit how badly he wants to talk to someone else with wings, someone who's been through the same struggles he has, someone who will understand. But the stranger is looking down at him (impressive, since he's at least three inches shorter) with an impatient, almost arrogant expression, and Connor finds himself suddenly tongue tied.

"Well?" he demands.

Connor shakes his head and starts to turn away. "Never mind," he mutters. This is clearly a mistake, and the best thing to do would just be to leave-

A second stranger drops out of the sky then, landing soundlessly on the ground just in front of Connor. He stops dead in his tracks, stumbling backward in surprise. He hadn't even realized there was a second man here.

"What's going on?" he asks, too startled now to worry about what to say. "Who are you people?"

"Nobody special," the man in front of him says, and Connor hears a snort from behind him. "But if you're looking for answers, we're probably the only ones that can give them to you."

-/-

That's how Connor comes to find himself in an impromptu campsite a mile or two away, in the company of four of the strangest people he has ever met. Or three, technically, because the first boy he'd spotted and followed doesn't come back with them. Of course, 'boy' probably isn't the right word, but he hasn't quite grown into the word 'man' yet, either. He's in the same awkward in between stage as Connor, as far as he can tell.

"He'll be back later," the other man- who by now has introduced himself as Altair- explains. "We're short on supplies at the moment, and he drew the short straw."

Connor nods, but doesn't say anything. The other two- Ezio and Edward- are several yards away, talking loudly and bickering over something.

"This is normally the part where people start asking questions," Altair says, and Connor nods- he has quite a few of those.

The answers Connor gets are more fantastic than anything he'd imagined. His head is spinning, and more than once he wants to interrupt and ask if any of this is real. He never does, though, because after all he's in a group of people with _wings_. That shouldn't be possible either.

The boy from earlier comes back about halfway through Altair's explanation, and after a brief conversation and a not-as-subtle-as-he-probably-thought-it-was push from Edward, sits on the ground so that Altair is sitting between him and Connor. He waits there until Altair hits a stopping point in his explanation and quickly excuses himself.

"So…" he makes a face and glances at Edward (who makes a get on with it already gesture). "Sorry if I was kind of a jerk earlier. You kind of surprised me."

"Yea," Connor mutters. "I'm feeling kind of surprised myself today."

"I bet," the boy says, laughing just a little. "So, um…" The conversation threatens to drop into an uncomfortable silence, and he makes an obvious attempt to keep it going. "When did your wings come in?"

"About a year ago," Connor says. "Yours?"

"Eighteen months, maybe?" He chews his lip absentmindedly. "Two years? Something like that."

And for a while after this the conversation turns to flight, and the hundreds of little details that no one else understands about having wings. Within five minutes they're both excited and talking over each other- Connor is unbelievably relieved to finally be able to talk about this to someone, and he can't stop the words from pouring out of him.

Then, in a momentary silence, the stranger- whose name Connor still hasn't learned- makes an impatient noise and says, "We never did introductions. What's your name?"

"Connor."

"No last name?"

"None I want to use," Connor says, a little more sharply than he'd meant.

"Why not?"

"My father…" Connor hesitates, but he's already seen the hidden blades most of the others are wearing, and looked them over in eagle vision. They're allies, assassins, so he explains. "My father's the grandmaster of the templar order here," he says. "I don't think he even knows about me-" and Connor has always been grateful for that small mercy, at least- "But I know about him. He organized the attack that killed nearly every assassin in the colonies a few years back." He scowls and stares down at the ground. "When I was a kid, he ordered an attack on my village, and it burned to the ground. My mother was killed…" but he can't bring himself to go on, and he realizes his hands have clenched themselves into fists.

"I'm sorry," someone says, and Connor jumps as Ezio appears at his side. "Templars killed my father, too."

Connor nods, even though it's not at all the same thing, because he only wishes his father was dead.

"What's his name, then?" Ezio asks.

"Haytham Kenway," Connor says, and knows immediately that he's said something wrong. The clearing goes abruptly and absolutely silent, and the atmosphere is suddenly so cold that Connor shivers a little. "What?" he asks.

"I'm leaving," the boy- the one whose name Connor still does not know- announces. "I don't have to sit here and listen to this. He stands, and Connor notices that he's _shaking_ uncontrollably. Then suddenly he's gone, spreading his wings and shooting straight up in a tornado of dead leaves and loose dirt. Connor throws an arm across his eyes to shield them from the grit, and when he can see again, Edward has gone as well.

Connor springs to his feet, turning on the remaining two. "What was that all about?" he demands. "What's going on here?"

Ezio looks over at Altair, who looks absolutely miserable. "Do you want to tell him, or should I?" he asks.

"No," Altair sighs. "I'll do it."

"Tell me what?" Connor demands.

"Well- time travel," Altair says.

"Yes, I know," Connor says. "I was listening, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Altair and Ezio share another quick, worried look, while Connor waits impatiently to hear whatever it is they don't want to tell him. Finally, Altair gestures vaguely upward and says, "That was your father."

"Oh," Connor says. That at least explains why he'd looked so familiar. "And?"

"Well-" Altair's still looking at Connor like he's expecting an explosion. "I was honestly expecting a bigger reaction from that."

"Why?" Connor asks. "You just explained how time travel works. I mean, it's a surprise, but it's not like they're the same person. So if he hasn't done anything yet, then I don't have a problem with him. Why should I?"

Ezio laughs, and that seems to be the end of it as far as he's concerned. Altair looks relieved as well, but it's slowly dawning on Connor that this is only the beginning. He can remember all too clearly the look on the stranger's- on _Haytham's_ face, and the way he'd shaken as he left.

-/-

Connor doesn't see Haytham again that day, or in the days or weeks that follow. Part of that is Connor's impossibly busy schedule. He's still training under Achilles nearly all the time, and his free time nowadays is spent with Altair and Ezio and Edward. Still, Haytham never seems to be around at the same time as Connor, and he's got a nasty, guilty feeling that he's avoiding him.

It's not until nearly two months later that they run into each other again, in Boston. It's a complete coincidence, actually, a chance meeting in a general store crowded with people stocking up on supplies. It's turned cold just recently, and the weather seems to promise snow and poor weather will be there soon.

Haytham stiffens when he sees Connor, and his face goes stormy as the sky outside. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Buying supplies," Connor says. "Same as you, I expect."

Haytham nods and crosses his arms, half angry and half defensive. "I can go somewhere else, though, if the sight of me offends you."

His voice is sharp and sarcastic, but his shoulders are hunched and he looks more embarrassed than anything else.

"It doesn't," Connor says. "Listen, what I said before, I didn't mean-" he stops, not quite sure how to apologize. It's not something he has much practice in. "You're not my father. You have his face and his name, but you're not him. So I guess I just mean that… I'm sorry."

"Oh," Haytham says, and seems to uncurl himself a little.

"What are you here for?" Connor asks, and Haytham sighs.

"Half the goods for sale here, I think," he says, and pulls a sheet of parchment out of his pocket. Connor looks it over with a critical eye.

"You can get most of this for less coin in other places," he says. "If you want, I could show you..?"

For a moment, Haytham looks like he's going to say no. He frowns, uncrosses and recrosses his arms, looks at the wall. Then he shrugs and nods. "Sure," he says. "Why not?"

Their conversation that day is stilted and uncomfortable. Had they parted on these terms, Connor doubts they would ever have become friends. Luckily- or unluckily- the snowstorm that's been looming for days hits late in the afternoon. For three days, the whole world is covered in swirling snow and ice like daggers. It's too cold to venture out for more than a few minutes, and the blizzard makes visibility impossible.

So, with no other choices available, they take rooms and spend their time in endless conversation. It's the only form of entertainment they have at the moment, and it turns out to be exactly what they need. Sometimes they argue, and once they very nearly come to blows. But mostly they just talk, and when the snow stops falling, they've more or less buried the hatchet.

Despite the weather, it's one of the best few days of Connor's life. It's also the last time for a while that he sees Haytham. Connor is still busy with training- busier, even, now that he's got missions and targets of his own to deal with. But while they rarely speak, this is the point where they start sending messages back and forth. Sometimes they're letters, sometimes random notes and doodles, and often they're covered in scribbled comments from Edward, who acts as their most frequent courier and apparently has no concept of privacy.

(It's one of these notes that Haytham will one day give to Desmond to pass onto Connor, a pointlessly cruel reminder of when they used to be friends)

The next time Connor sees Haytham, it's once again an unexpected accident. Only this time, it's much less pleasant, because he's dealing with his actual, literal father this time, the templar that is responsible for so much pain and suffering.

They both happen to be hunting the same man, Benjamin Church, and their separate searches take them to the same place within minutes of one another Not that Connor knows his father is there, not at first, anyway- he doesn't figure that out until something heavy lands on him an suddenly Connor is on his back, with his father's face inches from his own and a blade at his throat.

Connor freezes. Just completely freezes as his brain stops working. Everything about his father is a twisted echo of the Haytham he's come to know over the past couple years. He's years older and miles more bitter, and Connor's first reaction is one of overwhelming pity. This isn't how things should have turned out.

For whatever reason, his father decides not to kill him. They even work together for a time, although it's tense and awkward the entire time. And then-

And then.

Connor hadn't known that Haytham was following them the whole time. Not until he stumbles on him actually talking to his father. They argue, loud and long. Haytham doesn't see any problem with it.

"He's me," he snaps. "From the future. Why wouldn't I want to meet him?"

"Because he's not a good person," Connor says. "He's-"

"I never said he was!" Haytham yells. "I don't want to turn out like that, obviously, but that doesn't mean I'm not curious!"

"And what happens when he wants to know who you are?" Connor asks. "If the templars find out about you, how long will it take them to figure out time travel and wings and all the rest?"

Haytham mutters something, loud enough for Connor to hear but softly enough for him to pretend that he hasn't. Then he storms off, still angry, leaving Connor with a sick feeling in his stomach. Because the truth is he's not worried about the group's secrets getting out. He can't shake the thought that the more time Haytham spends with his older self, the more likely he is to be- tainted by him. Obviously Haytham has it in him to become a templar- Connor knows he'd briefly been one before meeting with Altair and Ezio and Edward, and he's terrified of the thought of him switching sides again.

He doesn't see Haytham again after that, not until the day Edward is killed. It's a dreary morning in New York, cold and wet and rainy, and Connor is in a foul temper after weeks of chasing what's turned out to be a false lead. He's hurrying down a busy street, head down and hood up, eager to get out of the weather for a while, when he looks up and sees Haytham hurrying away in the other direction. Connor recognizes him at once, and thinks about calling out or trying to catch him.

What stops him is a scream. The door of house Haytham had just come from is open, and a wide eyed woman stands just outside, hands clapped over her mouth like she can't believe what she's just seen. Connor doesn't stop to ask any questions, just pushes past her and into the house.

Where he stops just over the threshold as suddenly as if he's run into a brick wall and stares. He's seen dead bodies before. Many of them. But this-

There's a body in the middle of the room, and Connor only barely recognizes it as Edward. The face has been mutilated, and there's a gaping wound in his stomach that's still dripping blood even though Edward looks like he's been dead for hours already. There are deep gouges on his shoulder and back, and his wings have been hacked off until they're nothing but nubs on his back. The wings themselves have been ripped apart and scattered around the body.

This hadn't been a quick death. Edward is covered in injuries, small and large, and Connor can imagine the fight that must have taken place here. The furniture in the room has been knocked over and smashed, adding to the overall violence of the scene, and there's blood absolutely everywhere. And the stab wound in his stomach looks like the kind that would kill slowly. Edward must have lain here for ages, suffering and in pain, as good as dead but still breathing.

It wouldhave been a terrible way to go.

Numbly, not fully aware of what he's doing, Connor kneels down and picks up one of the feathers. It's stained and dripping with blood, and he's is reminded of stories he's heard from Altair about the early days of the assassins, when feathers were dipped in the target's blood to prove a job has been completed.

He laughs, even though there's nothing funny about this at all. He laughs because the world is falling apart around him, and he just can't deal with this. He can't. This would have been bad enough if this had been a stranger on the ground in front of him, killed by someone Connor has never seen before.

But it's not a pair of strangers. It's Edward lying on the floor, and it's Haytham that's killed him. And this makes it worse. So much worse.

-/-

Desmond is curled up with his feet on the chair and his chin on his knees, arms wrapped protectively around himself by the end of the story, and Connor feels a hot flash of guilt for having to tell him all this. But he has to know, especially if Haytham is going to come bothering him at school.

"Why would he do that?" Desmond asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Why would anyone do that?"

"I don't know," Connor says. "I haven't seen him since then." Not for lack of trying- he's tracked Haytham through two different centuries by now, always just a step or two behind. "But if I ever do…" he shakes his head. "Trust me. I'll ask." He wants to know. He needs to. The only explanation he can think of is that Haytham had in fact turned back to the templars again. But even that rings hollow, because Connor had seen him with Haytham. He'd adored his father, and Connor would have thought Edward would be the last person in the world Haytham would want to see dead.

But there it was. Connor had actually seen him leaving the place where Edward had been killed, and it wasn't like anyone else even knew Edward had wings. It must have been Haytham. And Connor wants, more than anything, to find him again and learn every detail of what had happened that day. Why Edward had been in New York in the first place, why Haytham had killed him, how he'd overpowered his father in a fight and walked away without a scratch.

Connor closes his eyes and sees, as he has every day since _that _day, Edward's body in his mind. He'll find out the truth, and then he'll kill Haytham.

"Connor?" Desmond says, in a voice that's shaky with tears. He looks up at Connor, a pleading expression on his face. Connor's not a fan of being touched, but Desmond looks like he's seconds away from a panic attack. So, when Desmond grabs him and holds on tight, Connor lets it happen. He pushes thoughts of death and vengeance away, and focuses on the feel of Desmond clinging onto him like he's the only solid thing left in the world.


	11. Chapter 7

Desmond has nightmares for a solid week after that, terrible dreams filled with blood and death. More than once he wakes up in the middle of the night shaking and covered in sweat, usually wishing that Altair had been the one to tell him all this. It's not like the details would have been any less grim, but Connor has a serious, matter of fact way of explaining things that drives every point home like a hammer pounding a nail into a wall.

He doesn't spare any details, and Desmond can imagine what happened to Edward with terrifying clarity, as if he'd actually been there himself. He can at least stop himself from thinking about it when he's awake, but not when he's dreaming. In fact, the nightmares don't stop until Altair starts training him to fight. It's not like he thinks he could actually win in a real fight. Not against someone that knew what they were doing. Not yet.

But he's doing something, at least, and that helps.

So Desmond learns to just get on with life. He picks up his grades, learns to fight, and spends all his remaining free time flying. Haytham doesn't come back, and Desmond starts to feel cautiously safe again.

The most exciting (if exciting is a word that fits the day's events) thing to happen for the next several months takes place on Desmond's tenth birthday. It starts out normally enough. He wakes up early and gets ready for school as quietly as he can. Lately, Altair's been working on some big project (Desmond has no idea what it is, because Altair gets cagey and evasive whenever he asks), and in Desmond's opinion not getting enough sleep. It's very hard to not wake him up- the man is a fully trained assassin, and usually Desmond wakes him just by walking past his door.

He's been working on it, though, and this morning Desmond manages to make it out the door without Altair hearing him at all, and that's a pretty cool. There's a little extra bounce in his step when Desmond walks to the bus stop, and he decides that all in all, it's a pretty good start to his birthday.

School is pretty good too. Like most kids, Desmond's not a fan of sitting in a classroom all day and learning math and spelling and whatever else his teacher decides is important. But that's not what they're doing today. Today, they're going on a field trip.

Desmond's never been to a zoo before, but this one does not disappoint. Technically, they're supposed to be learning… something. Probably. He hadn't been the only one not paying attention when their teacher explained it back at school, and he's not the only one not paying attention now. As soon as they get to the zoo, the class breaks into groups of four and five and splits off to look at different exhibits.

Most of the morning is spent staring at giraffes and elephants and aardvarks, hanging over fences while the chaperone does his best to pull them back. And Desmond doesn't see a problem with any of it until after lunch, when they go to the bird house.

As soon as he steps inside, Desmond is nearly overwhelmed with the scent of bird (birds molting and birds eating and even birds pooping) and the sound of bird (the quiet rustle of feathers, the sharp screech of warning when one bird gets too close to another). It smells disarmingly like home, and speaks to something in the deepest parts of Desmond's mind, in a place that's all instinct and no thinking. He feels his wings shifting under his skin in response, and he has to close his eyes and concentrate really hard on keeping them hidden.

It's almost a full minute before he gets himself under control enough to look around, and then he feels worse.

"They're all in cages," he says, just loudly enough for one of his classmates to hear.

"Duh," the boy- a tall blonde kid with a perpetually running nose named Benny- says, rolling his eyes. "It's a zoo."

Only Desmond hasn't thought about the idea of animals in cages until now because these are birds and birds are supposed to fly. They're not supposed to be stuck in cages.

"Sometimes they clip their wings, too," Benny goes on. "For the outdoors exhibits."

"But… that would hurt. A lot." Desmond can imagine exactly how that would feel, and it would be awful. It would mean not being able to fly, it would mean being trapped on the ground but always, always, _always _aware of the weight of useless wings weighing him down when they should be a means of freedom.

"Yea," Benny says. "So? They're just birds."

"They're not _just_ birds," Desmond snaps.

"Check this out," Benny says, ignoring him. He bends down to pick something up off the floor, and draws back his arm to throw. "It's funny, watch-"

Desmond is moving before his conscious mind has even processed what his eyes are seeing. He jumps in front of the projectile (something hard and sharp and heavy) seconds after it leaves Benny's hand. It doesn't hurt, but the scary part is that it _should_. Desmond hears the sharp crack as it hits the side of his head, and everything flashes white for a second before going completely dark, like it's the middle of the night.

The shock of it almost stops Desmond from moving, but then he hears an eagle (the bird Benny had been _trying _to hit before Desmond got in the way) give a scream of startled surprise behind him.

Benny had been about to hit an _eagle_. With a _rock._

Desmond flips to eagle vision (it's blurry but at least it works) and leaps, recklessly and without thinking. A scream tears his throat, an echo of the eagle's behind him, far more avian than human. He just barely keeps enough control to prevent his wings from breaking through his skin. Still, his bones are hollow and light, and Desmond nearly flies, even without his wings. Before Benny can do more than blink, Desmond rams into him, feet first, so that they fall all over each other in a heap of tangled limbs and waving fists. Benny gets a good hit in on Desmond's mouth and he tastes blood, but he keeps hitting back until someone drags him away, shouting right in his ear.

The words don't make sense, though. They seem fuzzy and far away, and Desmond's weirdly off balance. He half mumbles something, and then something hard smacks him in the face. It takes him a couple seconds to realize it's the floor, and that he's lying on it. Then he blacks out, and doesn't know anything else for a good long while.

-/-

There's a beeping in his ears when he next wakes up, and something heavy wrapped around his eyes. He raises a hand to pull it away, but someone grabs him by the wrist to stop him before he can. Desmond doesn't resist. He feels totally drained, and anyway the hand on his arm only four fingers.

"…Altair?" he mumbles, and the hand tightens a little.

"You're awake," he says.

"What's going on?" Desmond asks.

"Well-" Altair sighs, and Desmond's stomach lurches. He knows that sound, although he's only heard it a handful of times. When he lets his grades slip, or doesn't pay enough attention during training. It means Altair is disappointed, and Desmond sits up in bed, twisting his fingers nervously in his lap. "I hoped you could tell me."

Desmond tells him everything, about the bird house and Benny and getting mad and the fight. When he's done, Desmond pauses, then goes on all in a rush. "I got angry," he says. "I mean- Benny was being a jerk. But I shouldn't have hit him."

For a long time, Altair doesn't say anything. It's awful, and Desmond fidgets because he still can't _see _anything, and he doesn't know what Altair's doing or thinking. When the man finally speaks again, though, his tone is kinder. "You did act without thinking," he says. "And that draws attention to all of us. Attention we really can't afford. But I don't think you'll be doing anything like that again."

"No," Desmond says. He shakes his head emphatically, but stops quickly when he starts to feel nauseous. "Where are we?" he asks, because he's really starting to worry.

"A hospital," Altair says. "You were hit in the head."

"I remember that part," Desmond mutters.

"And you've been unconscious for three days," Altair says. "I don't understand all the medical details, but it sounds like it hit you in a way that… well-"

Desmond has never heard Altair lost for words before, and hearing it now scares him more than anything else. "What?" he asks. "What happened?"

"It hit some nerves it shouldn't have," Altair says. "And the short version is that you might not get your vision back."

"Oh," Desmond mumbles, because there really doesn't seem like there's anything else to say. But it turns out that even if he can't see, he can still cry, and in a couple seconds he's crying like a baby, soaking the bandages wrapped around his head. "It's not fair," he says through the tears. "It's not fair!"

"I know," Altair says, and Desmond feels his arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him as he shakes. He's steady as a rock, and Desmond is superbly grateful to have someone to lean on. After a while someone comes in, a doctor that pokes and prods and prattles on, but Altair still doesn't let go.

"…of course, I don't have access to your medical records," the doctor says eventually. "And your dad wouldn't let me examine you beyond what's absolutely necessary." He sounds vaguely angry, but Desmond is relieved. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder if the doctors would have found anything weird about him while he was unconscious, but it sounds like Altair has kept anyone from finding out about his wings. "But apart from your vision loss, it looks like the worst you'll have are a few scars to show for it."

"Where-"

Altair guides Desmond's hand to the edge of his mouth, where he feels a deep slash sewn up with stiches. "It's like yours," he says. "And Ezio's."

"Right," the doctor says. He sounds profoundly uninterested in it all, and eager to continue on to the next patient. "Well, I'll be back later today, but I'll leave you with your dad for now."

When he's gone, Altair says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Desmond says. He screwed up, and got angry, and had a stupid fight. And now he might be blind for the rest of his life so no, he absolutely does not want to talk about it. There is something else he wants to say, though. "People keep saying you're my dad."

"Yes," Altair says. "Because you're ten years old and we look somewhat similar and I'm the one that goes to meetings with your teachers and sits with you in the hospital for three days."

"But we're just pretending, right?" Desmond asks. "Because you're like… a million years older than me."

"Barely nine hundred," Altair says. "But you know this already, so why-"

"It's just, I was thinking," Desmond says. "Because like you said, you're the one that met my teacher, and you waited here for me to wake up, and you pack me lunch for school and-"

"Desmond?"

"I wish you were my real dad," Desmond whispers. "You're better than he was." Because with William, Desmond had always felt like a resource. At best, he could have been shaped into an assassin, something that could be used. Pointed at templars like a gun and sent off to kill. But Altair- even though he's an assassin, and Desmond knows Altair would like for him to be one too- has never treated him like a thing. He treats him like a person, and that's…

Good.

Altair doesn't say anything, but Desmond isn't the only one crying after that.

**-/-**

**I'm not a doctor, I don't know anything about brains or eyes or whatever, I'm pretty sure head injuries don't work like that. I'm going to hide under the 'alternate universe' excuse and pretend it doesn't matter.**


	12. Chapter 8

Desmond isn't sure how long he stays in the hospital.

He sleeps a lot, dropping in and out because there's not much else he _can _do. Sometimes he has visitors who come by to talk or doctors with tests to run, but visiting hours only last so long and the doctors have other patients to see. Most of the time, he sits alone and tries not to think about how badly his bandages itch, or what's going to happen when they come off.

And then, finally, the day of truth comes. The room is hot and stuffy, half because of an overenthusiastic heater in the corner, and half because of the crowds in the room. There's four or five doctors moving in and out of the room, talking loudly in a technical, medical jargon that lets Desmond catch maybe one word out of every five. Altair, Ezio, and Connor are there too. Altair sits next to Desmond on the bed, and the way his weight makes the mattress dip is a comforting reminder that he's not alone.

When one of the doctors starts to pull the bandages off, Desmond shakes his head and shies away.

"Come on, now," the doctor says in a cajoling tone that only makes Desmond more stubborn.

"I wanna do it myself," he says.

"That's really not a good idea," the first doctor says, but another one shoots her down.

"It doesn't matter," he snaps. "Let the kid do it, and we can all go home."

He doesn't sound very nice, but that doesn't explain why Altair suddenly tenses next to him, or why the temperature seems to literally drop about five degrees. Suddenly Desmond isn't sure he wants to see what's going on there.

He unwraps the bandages slowly, trying not to shake, and then drops the cloth from numb fingers. The first thing he notices is that the world isn't as dark as it had been right after he'd been hit on the head. Everything's a little blurry still, but Desmond can see vague shapes filling the room. He flips to eagle vision, just to make sure that's working too, and has to stifle a cry of shock.

His eagle vision works exactly the way it's supposed to, so that's not the surprise. What does surprise him is the red (red like blood) that suddenly flares up in one of the doctors on the far side of the room. Every instinct he has is screaming danger at him and Desmond tenses in paralyzed fear. Altair grabs his arm and squeezes (part reassurance and part warning not to do anything rash), and Desmond reminds himself that there are three other people in this room with eagle vision, and if nobody's panicking there's probably a reason.

"Well?" the man with the red aura snaps, and Desmond isn't at all surprised to find out this is the doctor that the angry voice belongs to. "What do you see?"

"Um-" Desmond lets his eagle vision fade as the angry doctor shoves his way to the front of the room (Connor, standing against the far wall closest to the doctor, scowls as the man pushes past him) and squats in front of Desmond. He's a big man, with a mean face and squinty eyes, and Desmond has to let his eagle vision fade because that much red right in front of him is absolutely terrifying. "Lots of blurry shapes, I guess?" he says.

"You guess?" The doctor repeats. "Or are you certain?"

"I-"

"Can you see any details?"

"No."

"Well," the man says with a snort that makes it obvious he blames Desmond personally for the failure. "I suppose that's as much as could be expected."

He straightens again and, after a few barked instructions to one of the other doctors, stamps out of the room.

As soon as he's gone, Desmond starts to say something, to demand answers, but Altair whispers, "Not now," and Desmond closes his mouth so quickly he bites his tongue.

The rest of the day is full of tests and talks from doctors (although Desmond is relieved not to see the angry one again). Finally he's allowed home with instructions to come back for a checkup in another week, and the cautious prognosis that his sight will most likely recover somewhat over time.

As soon as there's no one else around, Desmond demands to know who the doctor had been and _why _he'd been there.

"His name's Warren Vidic," Altair says. Obviously he's been expecting this question. "We haven't been able to find out much about him, but we do know he's a templar and that he's spent a lot of time studying the brain. Genetic memories, specifically."

"What's that?"

Ezio- who has remained uncharacteristically quiet so far- breaks into the conversation at this point. "Some nonsense the templars dreamed up," he says. "They think it's going to help them wipe out the assassins, but it's not like it's ever going to work."

"But what-"

"The important thing is that as far as we can tell, he's not interested in any of us," Altair says. "He was passing through on the way to somewhere else, one of the doctors at the hospital was someone he was at medical school with- _not _a templar, before you ask, just a classmate- and asked him to consult because your condition was so uncertain."

"Oh."

"And Desmond-" Altair pauses, and after an obvious struggle goes on. "It's very, very important that we do nothing to draw his attention. The templars don't know we're here. They don't even know we exist. The best case scenario for all of us is if he passes through without finding out anything about us."

"Well, not really," Connor says. "The best scenario would be if we figure out why he's really here and stop him. He's obviously planning to stay for a while. He's got a house rented and everything."

"Right," Altair says. "But Desmond-"

"Yea?"

"I absolutely do not want you to get involved in this. Alright?"

Desmond nods, staring out the window at a view that looks like one long multicolored blur. "I don't want that at all," he says.

-/-

The next few days are kind of a blur, and Desmond is relieved when he's finally allowed outside on his own again. His vision is still less than awesome, but he's sick of being trapped inside and so he sort of exaggerates how well he's recovered. Besides, he can see perfectly well in eagle vision, even if he is still squinting to see details.

He nags Altair about going outside for a week straight, and finally the assassin gets exasperated enough to allow him. He's looking forward to an afternoon of flying, something to salvage his awful day (or week or month or whatever, it's just a never ending amount of awful lately). There's a place just outside town where no one ever goes, and Desmond knows he can fly for hours without worrying about strangers seeing him.

But it turns out that it isn't strangers he should be worrying about.

There's someone waiting for Desmond at his usual spot, someone that shows up as a blue smudge in his eagle vision. Altair is still back at the house, but Desmond hasn't seen Ezio or Connor all day, and he knows they've both used this place for flying as well. It's not until Desmond gets very close that he recognizes Haytham, and absolutely freezes. He hasn't thought about the man in ages, not since just after he heard his whole story from Altair and Connor.

"What are you doing here?" Desmond asks, because it's already too late to run, and he'd rather not fight if he doesn't have to. Not after what he's heard of Haytham's capabilities.

"I thought I'd wish you happy birthday," Haytham says.

"What?"

"You're tenth birthday was last month, wasn't it?" Haytham asks, in a voice so casual they might have been discussing the weather.

"I- well yea, but how did you-"

"I know people," Haytham says, casually. Desmond wonders what that's supposed to mean.

"Why are you here?" Desmond crosses his arms over his chest, trying not to look scared and failing completely.

"Well-" Haytham sighs, and runs a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture that somehow doesn't quite agree with what Desmond's heard of him. "I'd rather hoped to talk to you," he says.

"About what?"

Haytham opens his mouth- shuts it again. "Never mind," he says. "They've told you about me already, haven't they?"

"They told me what you did to Edward," Desmond says.

"Then you're not going to listen to a word I have to say," Haytham says.

"No," Desmond says, with as much conviction as he can manage.

"Unfortunate," Haytham says. "Here."

Desmond barely manages to catch the parcel Haytham tosses him. It's a small, rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper, and Desmond stares at it in confusion. "What is it?"

"A present," Haytham says. "Happy birthday."

"The last time you gave me something," Desmond says cautiously, "It pissed off Connor like nothing I've ever seen. He said you did it just to be mean."

"Did he now?" Haytham makes an impatient noise. "Of course he would assume the worst."

"Then why did you want him to have it?" Desmond asks. "What was the point?"

But Haytham only shakes his head and spreads his wings. "I'll tell you next time," he says.

"Why does there have to be a next time?" Desmond mutters, but Haytham only offers him a thin smile and turns to leave. As he does, though, a thought occurs to Desmond.

"Wait!" he blurts out, and Haytham actually stops. Desmond can't make out enough of the man's face to see his expression, but he can imagine it pretty well. It probably looks pretty similar to the look of surprise on his own.

"You had something to say?" Haytham asks, while Desmond is still struggling to wrap his head around the fact that for some reason he's still talking to him. But he can't back down now.

"Are you here with Vidic?" he asks.

"Who?"

"Oh," Desmond mutters. "Never mind. I just thought- because you're both templars, and you're both in town all of a sudden, you might be here for the same reason."

Haytham actually laughs. "And I suppose you'd believe me if I told you I've never even heard of him," he says.

Desmond shrugs. He doesn't know what he'd been hoping for, exactly, and is really starting to regret asking. This time, when Haytham spreads his wings and takes off, Desmond doesn't bother stopping him. But he doesn't stay out any later that day, either. He just turns around and heads straight home.

Altair is clearly surprised to see Desmond back so early after he's spent a week begging to be allowed outdoors, but he doesn't say anything. Whatever project he's been working on lately is still taking up a lot of his time and attention, and the added pressure of finding out why Vidic's in town has him more distracted than Desmond's ever seen him.

So Desmond doesn't say anything. He doesn't relish the thought of interrupting Altair while he's at work, and if he's absolutely honest with himself, he wants to find out what's in the package Haytham had given him on his own before he tells anyone else. So he runs upstairs, sits on the far side of the bed, and cautiously unwraps the package.

A book falls out.

Desmond isn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been this. It really is… just a book. Paperback, apparently brand new, and still with the price tag on the back. It has nothing to do with… anything, as far as Desmond can tell. It's a novel, some alternate history story. There are pirates, according to the description on the back.

Desmond flips it open, expecting to see some kind of clue. Why this book? Why any book? But there's nothing, just three hundred and forty eight pages of text. Large print, Desmond notices, and he wonders if that's a coincidence or if Haytham has been keeping tabs on him and his still recovering eyes.

With no other choices available, Desmond turns back to the front page and starts to read. And then he keeps reading, until finally Ezio comes home and shouts up the stairs that he has food. That's when Desmond looks up with a start and realizes it's been more than four hours. His eyes are killing him, and he remembers with a tiny amount of guilt that he's supposed to be avoiding as much eye strain as possible.

But the book is really good, even if it's obviously not meant for a ten year old's reading level. Not everything makes sense, and there are a lot of words that Desmond doesn't know, but mostly it's just a really good, sort of ridiculous story. The way the story's been written is really good, too, and reading it feels like being told a story by someone he knows.

Altair and Ezio are already downstairs, picking at the food Ezio's brought back (carry out Chinese) and looking discouraged. Desmond eats as quickly as possible, and runs back upstairs. Behind him, he hears Ezio and Altair start comparing notes on Vidic. He doesn't exactly know how he feels about them waiting for him to leave before they talk. On the one hand, he really wants to be kept in the loop, so that he won't be the burden he's felt like since his vision went out. But then on the other hand, he's really scarred of Vidic. The man would be unlikable under any possible circumstances, but the bloody red of his aura in eagle vision makes it even worse.

Desmond puts it out of his head and runs back upstairs. The real world, right now, is confusing and hard to manage and frankly still a little bit fuzzy, and Desmond is grateful that he still has a book upstairs to distract him. Just for a little while.


	13. Chapter 9

After he's finished with his reading, Desmond goes back to the place where he'd seen Haytham, and then he goes back again and again on the days after that, waiting for the man to show up again. He can't explain, even to himself, why he hasn't told anyone about seeing Haytham again. He should, he really should, and one day he's going to end up murdered or something because he was too stupid to say something when he had the chance.

But he keeps showing up anyway, and after more than a week Haytham finally shows up. Desmond's actually lying spread out on the grass with his arm thrown over his eyes against the sun. By this point, his vision is almost completely back to normal, except in bright light. He's half dozing, and doesn't realize Haytham is there until the man sits on the ground next to him. "You do realize how exposed you are like that," he says. "Anyone could get right on top of you without you even noticing."

Desmond sits up and frowns. The words could have come from Altair (and Desmond's been told of for exactly that during training before), and Desmond has to remind himself that after all Haytham had grown up with the assassins. He'd probably sat through a lot of the same lectures Desmond is hearing now, and learned most of the same techniques. It's weird to think about that, somehow.

"Where have you been?" he complains. "It's been ages."

"Have you been waiting for me?"

"No," Desmond mutters, even though he kind of has been. "I just have questions. That's all."

"Do you."

Desmond nods. "What was the point of the book?" he asks. "I don't get it."

"I just thought you might find it… entertaining."

"Why?" Desmond asks. "It's a good book, but-"

"Because Altair wrote it," Haytham says. When Desmond turns around to look him in the eye (something he's avoided doing so far), the man actually laughs at the look of utter bewilderment on his face.

"What?"

"Unlikely, I know," Haytham agrees. "I imagine he's rather embarrassed about it."

"He definitely never said anything," Desmond says.

"As far as I can tell," Haytham says, "It probably started working on them-"

"There's more than one?" Desmond interrupts.

"A series," Haytham said. "But as I was saying, he probably started working on them because he was already spending so much time on his research anyway."

To find out who he and the others would have been without time travel and their wings, Desmond remembers.

"So," Haytham says. "Alternate history is a natural outgrowth from that, and they've sold rather well. I imagine he needed the money when he first got to this century, and also that he probably enjoys it on some level."

Desmond briefly entertains the idea that Haytham's lying, but it's such an unbelievable lie he's weirdly convinced it's true. Besides, it would explain the familiarity he felt when reading the book (he's definitely spent enough time listening to Altair's stories, and reading isn't all that different), and why he sometimes seems to be working against deadlines that Desmond has never gotten a proper explanation for. "Huh," he says. "That's… kind of funny, actually." Not in a bad way, just… unexpected. Desmond laughs, and then stops abruptly when he remembers where he is and who he's with.

"I thought so too," Haytham says. "When I first figured it out."

"And how _did _you figure it out?"

"You forget," Haytham says. "I lived with the man for seven years. I like to think I know him well." He laughs- a sudden, sharp bark that sounds more angry than amused. "But then, I thought they knew me, too…"

He stays silent for such a long time that Desmond starts to feel uncomfortable. "I'm going home now," he announces, getting cautiously to his feet.

Haytham nods, waving him away absentmindedly. "I'll see you again," he says, and unlike last time, Desmond doesn't argue. He's starting to realize that all these visits are leading up to something, and that Haytham's not going to tell him what it is until he's decided he's ready.

Briefly, Desmond toys with the idea of going home and telling Altair everything. That would be the smarter thing to do, and the safer thing. He should have done it after the first time, but if he says something now it's probably not too late. But then, if Desmond says something, he'll never find out what Haytham wants with him.

The wind, which has been nothing more than a breeze this whole time, picks up suddenly. It's strong enough that Desmond is forced a couple of steps backward. But it's a good wind, carrying the scent and promise of spring. Desmond rolls his shoulders back as if to fly- it's just that kind of weather, the kind that makes him want to soar. But his wings aren't out, and Desmond reluctantly turns toward home.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Haytham (who has had his wings out the entire conversation) tilt his face upward, eyes half closed, an unexpected expression of bliss on his face. Desmond blinks, not quite believing his own eyes. Everything- absolutely _everything_- he's seen of Haytham with his own eyes contradicts what he's heard of him from the others. It's confusing and complicated and Desmond… doesn't want to deal with it right now.

He runs all the way home without looking back once.

-/-

Ezio comes home with good news- after days of worrying over what Vidic is in town for, he's somehow discovered that he's there to set up a safe house for future templar use. The group has them all over the world, dozens or hundreds put in place _just in case_. Most of them are never used, and this one likely won't be either. It's mere coincidence that Vidic picked this place, possibly influenced by the fact that he does have an old friend in the area, after all. The doctor that brought Vidic in to help with Desmond in the first place.

"That's a pretty big coincidence," Desmond says, after Ezio has finished explaining his findings to the rest of them. He's not too sure that this is good news.

"Coincidences are more likely than most people think," Ezio says. "The odds of any one in particular happening are small, but the odds of getting _any _coincidence is equal to the odds of any single coincidence added up. More likely than it seems."

"Unusually perceptive of you," Connor says. Ezio scowls in mock anger and Connor gives him a small, satisfied smile.

"I'm allowed to know things sometimes," Ezio says.

Desmond shrugs. He still doesn't much like the idea of Vidic having a safe house in his town. "He's leaving though, right? After he gets the place set up?"

"Yep," Ezio says. "He's planning to leave within the week."

"Good," Desmond says, and then decides he doesn't want to talk about this anymore. Unfortunately, the first change of subject that comes to mind is one he's not actually supposed to know about. He looks over at Altair, and says, "Why did you start writing books?"

Altair's face actually changes color, going red as a tomato. "You… know about that."

Desmond nods, hoping he's not going to have to explain how he found out. "It's cool," he says instead. "I read one. I liked it."

Altair doesn't say anything else. Instead, he beats a hasty retreat into the next room.

"Awesome," Ezio says. "We can go back to teasing him about them now."

"It's cool though," Desmond says.

Ezio nods. "I know that," he says. "And you know that. But for some reason Altair thinks it's this big embarrassing secret, so it's pretty much the rule that we need to tease him."

"Okay," Desmond says. This, at least, is familiar- even though Ezio obviously respects and likes both Altair and Connor, he also has a habit of never taking anything seriously. Not unless it's very, very bad. Ezio turns away, and says something to Connor that Desmond doesn't bother listening to. "I still think it's cool," he says under his breath.

He doesn't notice that only half of Ezio's attention seems to be on his conversation, or that the man's gaze keeps wandering back toward him. Later that night, though, when Desmond is in his room and getting ready for bed, Ezio comes looking for him. "So," he says. And he's not smiling.

"So what?"

"Did you figure it out for yourself?" Ezio asks. "Or did someone tell you?"

"I figured it out," Desmond says, ignoring the way his brain is screaming _no don't do it stop stop stop_. Until now, he's just been not telling anyone about Haytham. Now he's actually lying, and that's a very different story. "I saw it lying around, and I just picked it up."

"Pretty big coincidence."

"Coincidences are more likely than people think," Desmond says, echoing Ezio's words from earlier.

Ezio opens his mouth to argue, but then shakes his head and crouches down so he's at Desmond's eye level. "Just be careful," he says.

"Careful with what?"

"In general," Ezio says. "We're assassins, and that means life is supposed to be difficult and dangerous. We've been lucky the last few years, and gotten a break from all that. It's not going to last forever."

Desmond nods.

"Okay," he says. "I'll be careful."

Ezio claps him on the shoulder and gets up. "Good night."

"Night," Desmond says.

But he doesn't sleep a wink, and when he gets up the next morning and meets Ezio in the kitchen, it doesn't look like he's slept either.


	14. Chapter 10

Weeks and months and years go by.

In some ways, it's the strangest eight years of Desmond's life. He spends his time flying, learning to fight, and sometimes meeting with Haytham and then lying to everyone important about the meetings. He still has no idea what Haytham wants, and has more or less resigned himself to never finding out. Sometimes it still frustrates him, and on those days he comes very close to just telling everything he knows.

But then he remembers that he's been lying for almost a decade, and at this point he's probably in almost as much trouble as Haytham is. So his meetings with Haytham stay secret and infrequent and irregular. Mostly they don't talk about anything important. Just pointless small talk, but as Desmond gets older he realizes that for some reason these unimportant conversations mean a lot to Haytham.

He never once sees Haytham without his wings, even in the coldest days of winter. It's weird, but then, there are a lot of weird things about Haytham. And Desmond can sort of understand the need to have someone (anyone) that it's safe to show them to. He has Altair and Ezio and Connor. Haytham has… probably no one but him. He's never once talked about his personal life, but Desmond gets the feeling he doesn't have anyone he's particularly close to.

So, in many ways those eight years are strange. But in some ways, they're also as normal as they could possibly be. Desmond finishes grade school, passes through middle school, and enrolls in high school. He makes friends, gets in fights, struggles with school. He tries dating, but after a few different girls, realizes he can't stand the constant lying and gives it up. He gets his license when he's seventeen- a year late because he needs to fake a lot of the documentation he needs to proof he's a real person to the DMV. A month after that, he has his first (disastrous) encounter with alcohol, and spends a night puking into a toilet. The next morning, Altair sits him down in the kitchen, makes him swear not to be so stupid the next time, then calls his school and tells them he has the flu.

And then suddenly he's in his senior year of high school, faced with the decision of what to do next with his life and the threat of leaving home for the first time, and suddenly Desmond feels like the most normal person in the world. Around him, his classmates are thinking about college or jobs or whatever else is in their future, and Desmond is doing the exact same thing. The only difference is that he has more worries.

He has to wonder what it will feel like to be surrounded by people that don't know he has wings, don't know where he comes from, and don't know he's an assassin (or going to be an assassin, anyway. Someday. When he finishes his training). And whatever he does, he'd rather stay away from templars and Abstergo and anything to do with them, which is difficult since they're a multinational corporation with eyes and ears everywhere.

"What do you think I should do?" he asks Altair after training one day.

"I think you should realize you're eighteen, and old enough to make your own decisions," Altair says.

Desmond rolls his eyes. "Okay, yes," he says. "But what about advice?" It's early December by this point- if he's going to apply for schools, it's going to have to happen soon. And if he's not, he'd rather have some idea of what he's going to do instead.

"I think you should stay in town," Altair says after a very long pause. "But you're smart. Smarter than your grades show, anyway."

"Only because I spend so much time training instead of doing my homework."

"And if you went to college I think you could do well," Altair says. "If you wanted to. But…"

"What?"

"It's been eight years," Altair says. "Since we last time travelled. I don't know how much longer we'll be here, so anything you do might end up being a wasted effort."

"Well, I'm more confused than ever," Desmond says. "Thanks for that."

Altair half snorts in laughter and leads the way back into the house. "Whatever you do, I'll be proud of you," he says.

Desmond falters half a step. He's not sure if Altair knows just how much he's come to rely on him over the past few years. But getting the man's approval means more to him than just about anything else in the world, and he feels a lot less worried after hearing that.

Less worried about the future, anyway, Desmond reflects with a twinge of guilt later that night. It's after dark and bitterly cold, and if anyone catches him sneaking out of the house he's not going to be able to explain what he's doing. Normally he wouldn't take the risk, but it's the fourth of December.

He'd only just found out last summer- by accident, actually- that this is Haytham's birthday. Ezio had mentioned it in passing once, and Desmond had added it to his too small but growing knowledge of the man. Ever since then he's been trying to figure out what to do with that information. It seems important, somehow, because the first time they'd met (not counting the incident at his school when he fought with Altair) he'd given Desmond a birthday present. Now he wants to return the favor, but of course he can't think of anything to give him. He will at least show up, though- if Haytham is there tonight, he really shouldn't be alone.

But he barely knows anything about the man, except that he's about three hundred years out of his own time, loves flying, and is apparently a fan of small talk. Still, he does his best. It might not even be relevant, of course, because Haytham might not be there at all. He's never been predictable.

And tonight, apparently, he's even less predictable than usual.

Haytham isn't alone when Desmond gets to the usual meeting place. There's a second person there, a person with wings, but it's not until Desmond is right on top of them that he realizes the second person is Ezio.

He stops dead in his tracks, and seriously considers flying as fast he can in the other direction. Neither man has apparently noticed him yet, too intent on a silent staring contest to pay attention to what's going on around them. Both of them are tense, wings spread in a half aggressive, half guarded stance, both waiting for the other to make the first move. But in the end, for whatever stupid reason, Desmond stays where he is, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

"So…" Ezio drags the word out. "How long has this been going on?"

"Eight years," Desmond says, when Haytham is silent.

"That long?" Ezio asks, and Desmond finds himself suddenly staring at the ground as Ezio turns an accusatory look on him. "I mean, I sort of suspected a while ago, but…"

"I'm sorry," Desmond says. "I should have told someone."

"Yes," Ezio says. Then he sighs, and actually cracks a smile. Not a large one, but it's still there. "But no one's been brutally murdered yet, so I guess that's something."

Haytham stiffens at that. "I'll leave," he says. "Don't worry, I won't be bothering you again."

"Wait, hang on," Desmond protests. "You can't just leave! You've been hanging out here for years now and never even said why."

"Well-"

"I would be interested in hearing that explanation myself," Ezio interrupts.

"But-"

"Come on," Ezio say, and Desmond very nearly laughs at the way Haytham sighs and gives up trying to argue with Ezio. "I'll buy dinner, we can have a nice conversation, and see where things go from there."

"Fine," Haytham mutters.

Desmond waits, trying to stay as unnoticed as possible, as Ezio and Haytham hide their wings, pull on shirts and coats, and eventually start on the walk back into town. No one says anything until they're finally settled in a diner on the edge of town, picking at food and avoiding eye contact.

Desmond keeps thinking how incongruous this whole scene is. Christmas music plays on a radio somewhere nearby, and the windows are covered in holiday scenes in bright paint- all evergreen trees and elves and Santas. Multicolored lights on strings hang from the walls and ceiling, and families with children sit nearby. It's all so unnervingly _normal_. The weirdest part is definitely Haytham- Desmond hasn't seen him without his wings since the very first day they met, at his grade school when he was nine. He looks so much smaller now, with his wings out of sight and covered by a too large hoodie with the name of some college stamped across the front. It's more casual than Desmond would have expected from him, but then he probably hadn't expected to be seen by anyone.

Ezio seems to have noticed the hoodie too, because that's what he brings up first. Maybe he's actually interested, or maybe he's trying to just get the conversation started. "Did you go there?" he asks.

Haytham shrugs with one shoulder and nods. "I had to do something with my time," he says.

"What did you study?"

"Veterinary biology," Haytham says. "Birds, specifically. I've been trying to understand… you know. Us. Why all this is happening."

"Any luck?"

"Not yet."

The conversation falters, and then Ezio pushes his food away, still mostly uneaten. "Okay," he says. "I have to ask."

Desmond has no doubt what his question is going to be, and Haytham apparently comes to the same conclusion. "You mean about how dad died," he says.

"Yea."

"I didn't kill him," Haytham says, so quietly that the words are almost lost in the general din of the people around them. Then, as if the words have unlocked something inside him, he goes on in a flood of words, more words than Desmond has ever heard from him in one go.

"It's been ten years," he snaps. "I've never said that before because I shouldn't have needed to. I thought you knew me better than that, but it's like you _wanted_ me to be the killer. I was training to be a templar when we all met, and none of you ever forgot that, even when I left them." He crosses his arms, glaring daggers at Ezio across the table. "He was my father. I'd already watched him die once, so what the _fuck _makes you think I wanted to see him die again? Getting dad back was a miracle. I never would have killed him. I couldn't have."

Ezio considers him for a long time, then slumps back in his seat and rubs his hand over his face. "Shit," he says. "Haytham, I'm-" he takes a deep breath. "I always thought there was something off about the whole thing, but then you _ran_."

"I'd just seen my dad killed for the second time," Haytham says. "It… for a while I wasn't in a very good place. I didn't get my head back together until after I was in this century. I didn't know where any of you were or if you were in this century at all. I didn't actually now for sure about that until I found out Connor was trying to find and kill me." He says this last part in an amazingly calm voice, given the topic. "That's when I decided to stay away from everyone for a while. I enrolled in school under a false name and kept my head down. Connor got close a couple of times, but I got lucky, and he never actually found me."

"So…" Desmond goes red as they both turn to look at him. "Sorry, I'm kind of behind here, I guess, but- who killed Edward, if you didn't?"

Haytham shrugs. "A group of soldiers," he says. "We flew into the city, landed in an out of the way place we'd used a million times before, and this time, there were people there. They saw dad but not me. He told me to leave when they started shouting about demons and monsters and I-" his eyes drop to the table. "God help me, I did. I never thought they would kill him, but… well, they got lucky, I guess. It only needed to happen once for him to be too injured to fight back."

"And what happened to the soldiers?" Desmond asks.

Haytham flicks one wrist out, apparently without thinking, and his hidden blade shoots out. The smooth, surface of the blade reflects the string of Christmas lights on the ceiling, sending greens and reds and blues dancing across the wall. He seems utterly lost in thought, so Ezio answers for him, staring at the blade. "I saw what they did to Edward," he says. "And I would have done the same."

"Okay then," Desmond says. He's never killed anyone- he's never needed to. And he's not ready to think about Haytham hunting the men that killed his father. Or about Ezio agreeing with him. So he changes the subject. "What do we do now?"

"We bring Haytham home," Ezio says, and the atmosphere seems to lose some of the tension that's been weighing it down for most of the conversation.

"Cool," Desmond says. Then, suddenly remembering the date and his original purpose in going out to see Haytham, he adds- "Happy birthday."

**-/-**

**Time skip! I like writing little Desmond but I have plans for this fic. Biiiiig plans. **

**Actually no jk the characters just do whatever they want and I get absolutely no say in the matter. :( Jerks.**


	15. Chapter 11

They don't leave the diner until nearly midnight. Everything is suddenly different, but in some ways the world's not so different from how it was that morning. Nothing can really change until Altair and Connor believe that Haytham is innocent, and convincing them will not be an easy task.

"I think Altair can be convinced," Ezio says, after they've talked themselves round in circles for a few hours.

"He did try to kill me," Haytham says.

"What?" Desmond asks. "Oh, you mean that time at my school when I was like nine?"

"Yes."

"Well what did you expect?" Desmond asks. "You knew he thought you killed Edward, right? How did you think he would react to you showing up at his kid's school?"

"Fair point," Ezio says, while Desmond takes a mental step back and realizes he'd just referred to himself as _Altair's kid_. When exactly had that happened? "But he can be surprisingly level headed sometimes."

"Yea," Haytham says. "Sometimes. And Connor-"

"Connor holds grudges," Desmond says. "But you didn't actually do anything."

"And if I'm lucky, that will make a difference," Haytham says. A passing waitress scowls at the three of them, and he sighs. "I think they're closing soon."

"Half an hour ago," the waitress calls over her shoulder, and Ezio laughs and follows her to settle their bill. Desmond and Haytham watch from a distance as they flirt, and when she writes down her phone number Haytham rolls his eyes.

"Some things never change," he says.

"I heard that," Ezio grumbles when they're outside.

"Well, if you didn't flirt with every woman that made eyes at you-"

"Did you just say 'made eyes'?" Ezio laughs. "Seriously, Haytham, you have the biggest stick up your ass-"

But they're both laughing, Haytham more genuinely than Desmond has ever seen. He lags back a little, feeling like an awkward third wheel, and feels something twist in his stomach at how much Haytham reminds him of Connor at that moment. They're clearly not the same person, not even close. Connor is intense and full of ideals that sometimes blind him to other choices. Haytham is a cynical bastard with trust issues. But there are moments, flashes of similarity that are almost unnerving. They wear their hair the same way, they both get their kicks out of arguing with Ezio, and they're both intensely, almost dangerously, stubborn. It's true that Connor holds grudges, and that getting him to forgive Haytham will be difficult. But getting Haytham to forgive Connor for automatically assuming he's a psychotic templar traitor is also going to take effort.

Desmond's phone rings when they're two blocks from home, and when he answers it's Altair on the other end. "Hey," Desmond says. "So, um-"

"Where are you?" Altair asks.

"On my way home. Why?"

"Is Ezio with you? He went out hours ago and he didn't look happy."

"Yea…" Desmond glances over to where Ezio and Haytham are talking in low voices, Ezio gesticulating passionately and Haytham nodding periodically. "I'm actually with him now."

"Everything okay?" Altair asks.

"I'm not sure," Desmond says.

"What does that mean?"

Ezio walks over and mouths _"Who is it?" _

"Actually here's Ezio now," Desmond says, with some amount of relief. Maybe it's cowardly, but the less stuck in the middle he can get in this situation, the better. "He wants to walk to you."

He hands the phone over. "It's Altair," he says. "Tell him?"

Ezio walks a little way away and has a long conversation while the other two look on. Finally he hangs up and tosses the phone back to Desmond. "So, he's not happy," he says in a tone of forced cheerfulness. "But Connor's out of town for a while-" Out of town means he's somewhere looking for Haytham. "So this is as good a time as any to sort this out."

Back at the house, with the four of them gather around the same table where- years ago now- Connor had first explained to Desmond that Haytham had killed his father in cold blood and then mutilated the corpse. That had been a bad experience, and Desmond had suffered from nightmares for ages. This… is going to be harder than that.

Haytham explains his story, again, as Altair watches impassively. He doesn't say a word the entire time, and it's not until Haytham finishes that he reacts at all. "I'll admit," he says. "That I do want to believe you. But everything you've done since Edward died has made it hard to trust you."

"How so?" Haytham demands. "I've been studying _birds_. I haven't done anything to hurt anyone. I'm not the monster you think I am."

"An innocent man would have stayed and explained the truth," Altair says.

"Not when you'd all proven how badly you want to think I'm guilty," Haytham says. "If we'd had this conversation ten years ago, it would have ended violently."

"Then why now?" Altair says.

"I saw him earlier," Ezio volunteers. "So I followed him out and didn't give him a choice about explaining."

"He's very persistent," Haytham says.

Altair nods, and turns abruptly to face Desmond. "What do you think?"

"Me?" Desmond flushes. "I wasn't even there when Edward died. What do I know?"

"You've seen the most of him over the last few years. Apparently." And the look he gives Desmond says quite plainly that there will be Words later, because regardless of whether Haytham is innocent, Desmond still lied about seeing him for years and years and years.

"Um… okay," Desmond hesitates, thinking the question over seriously before answering. He knows Altair doesn't want a flippant or thoughtless answer. And it is complicated, because _Haytham_ is complicated. He can be surly and sarcastic and impossible and then suddenly he'll do something that betrays just how tired he is of being alone. Like how he never hides his wings around Desmond, like he has no one else in his life he can trust with that secret. Or when he'd given Desmond the note to pass to Connor- he hadn't meant it to be cruel, but to remind Connor that they hadn't always been enemies.

"I trust him," he says.

Altair nods. "Good enough," he says, and reaches across the table to clap Haytham on the shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Haytham shakes his head and tries to speak. It takes a couple tries before he can get the words out. "Just like that," he says. "Ten years on my own, and it turns out to be just that easy."

Altair sighs and draws back. "I'm willing to admit that we… were wrong. We jumped to a conclusion without any real evidence. Your explanation makes a lot more sense than what we've been thinking all this time. So I'm sorry, and… welcome back."

And at that exact moment- of course- they hear the front door open.

"Connor's back," Desmond says.

"He's early," Ezio says. "This is going to be fun."

-/-

It's not fun.

Desmond had expected Connor to be angry. He expected him to lose his shit, basically, and that's exactly what happens. Desmond has never heard either of them shout, but tonight he does. The shouting and accusations and anger lasts most of the night. Had the others not been there, weapons would have almost certainly come out, but as it is they keep to words.

In the early hours of the morning, they finally settle down a little. It's not that either of them is done, it's just that they're both clearly exhausted. Altair comes over around 3:30 and tells Desmond to try and get some sleep. "You do still have school in a few hours."

"Oh come on-"

"Unless you'd rather stay here and listen to more arguing. I'm sure they'll be back at it soon."

"Well, when you put it like that, school doesn't seem so bad." Desmond tries a smile (it doesn't exactly work out) and heads off to bed. Still, the atmosphere of the house is too tense for him to really sleep. When he leaves the next morning, it's in a tired haze and through the back door.

At school, Desmond sleeps through his first four classes, skips gym, and spends lunch playing with his food. Seventh hour is study hall, and Desmond is resigned to sitting in the back of his the classroom and worrying about what's going on at home, but luckily a friend shows up to distract him.

Desmond… doesn't have a lot of friends. Something about the constant secret keeping, maybe, or the amount of time he spends on his own, flying, or training with Altair. Rebecca is one of the few that never seemed to care, but she'd graduated two years ago and hadn't been back much since. Still, she's fun- Desmond's often wished he could tell her about his wings, because she'd probably get a huge kick out of it. She sky dives on the weekends, there's no way she wouldn't love the wings.

But then she'd graduated- a year late, because of an unlucky fall and a broken leg that healed badly and kept her out of school for a while- and gone off to study computers somewhere, and the subject had just… never come up. Desmond runs into her on his way out of lunch, smiling and cheerful and exactly the same as ever.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "Aren't you supposed to be taking finals or something?"

"I've got like two weeks left," Rebecca says, waving a hand dismissively. "I thought I'd come back and visit some people. So how's life?"

"Pretty crazy, actually," Desmond says. "Some- um- family drama."

"Always fun," Rebecca says, rolling her eyes. "Fighting with your dad or something?"

"Nah, dad's fine. It's, um… it's just complicated."

"Yea, I bet," Rebecca says, and there's something… off about her voice. "Can I ask you kind of a personal question?"

"Sure, I guess?"

"Are you adopted?"

"What?" Desmond stops dead in his tracks and stares at her. No one has ever questioned his relationship to Altair, and Rebecca's looking at him like this question is actually important, not just some random small talk. "He's- I mean, why-"

"You are, aren't you? Des, I... met some people, at school. I think one of them is your dad. Your real dad, I mean."

"Altair _is_ my real dad," Desmond snaps, much more loudly than he'd intended to. The people around them turn and stare, and he drops his voice. "Not biologically, but he's not the one that straight up abandoned me in New York, alright?"

"Can we talk?" Rebecca asks. "Somewhere not here?"

"I really don't want to do this right now," Desmond says. "When I said there was family drama going on I meant it. Today's not a great day."

"Please?" Rebecca asks. "You can play hooky, we'll get food or something…"

"And you're not going to let this go until we talk, are you?" Desmond says. She grins and he rubs a hand over his face. "Okay then," he says. "Fine, let's go."

Today is just not his day.

-/-

They actually only get as far as the parking lot before Rebecca starts on her questioning. "So your last name is Miles," she says.

"It was," he says. "A long time ago, before-" Before his wings. "I haven't used it since I was eight."

"Why?"

"Because I have a new family," Desmond says. "And I don't want to be found. You said you met my dad. So you… know what he does?"

"That he's an assassin?" She nods. "Yea."

"So you know he could find me if I'm not careful. And I'm not going back to that life."

"Because he's an assassin?"

"No," Desmond says. "Some assassins are fine."

"Then why?"

"When I was eight, he took me to New York," Desmond says. "I got sick. Really, really sick. I mean, that was the most scared I've ever been. And he left. Went on some mission or something, I don't even know. But he didn't come back. Altair was the one that found me, and that was the best thing that ever happened to me."

"But-"

"So if you want to promise to never, ever tell him," Desmond says, talking over her. "That would be great."

"He's been looking for you," Rebecca says. "For ten years. Everyone in the order knows about it. So I heard he was looking for a kid named Desmond, and I thought- well, that's not a very common name, and I thought about you and the more I thought about it the more everything just… clicked into place."

"Then unclick it," Desmond says. "Please, Rebecca. I have a life, and a family. I don't want to lose that."

"And what about your dad?" Rebecca asks. "He lost you."

"Because he left," Desmond says. "It's his own damn fault."

Rebecca makes a face and nods. "Fine," she says. "But if I hear about anything happening here, or templars or whatever, then I'm telling him."

"Why would there be templars here?" Desmond asks, thinking of the safe house Vidic set up eight years ago, and the current confusion with Haytham.

"Cuz your dad's the mentor, maybe?" Rebecca says. "And like it or not, he _is _still your dad. They'd love to get their hands on you."

"Then I'll make sure they never find me," Desmond says. "I'll be fine, Rebecca, I promise."

That's the last they say on the matter, and when Desmond goes home that night he doesn't mention Rebecca's visit to anyone. The others have enough to worry about without adding his problems to the pile.


	16. Chapter 12

Haytham spends most of the morning alternating between listening to Connor yell at him and sitting in silence while he waits for the next bout to start. He's stopped bothering to argue by this point because Connor- when he really gets going- is impossible to reason with. The more Haytham argues, the more convinced Connor becomes that he's right. It's not working, and Haytham decides it's time to think of something else.

Talking hasn't worked yet, so a little after noon Haytham picks up a piece of paper and spends half an hour writing… everything. His side of the story, what happened with Edward, a three paragraph long rant about the immaturity of _certain people_. Connor watches him the entire time, a frown of confusion on his face as Haytham finally folds the paper into an airplane and throws it at him.

The throw goes wide but Connor blocks it with one wing. It falls to the ground with a nearly inaudible thud, tip crumpled. For a second, Haytham's not sure if he's even going to pick it up, but then his curiosity gets the best of him. He bends down, unfolds the message, reads it. And then he writes back.

They keep at it for a solid hour, until finally Ezio comes in to see why they're being so quiet. "Wow," he says when a passing paper plane hits him in the elbow. "Just wow. Seriously, I half expected to come in and find that you'd killed each other. Instead you've apparently regressed into children."

Haytham looks at Connor, and in that moment everything seems to hinge on what his reaction will be. But Connor's looking back at him, and he snorts and rolls his eyes like he's inviting Haytham to share the joke. And so Haytham smiles back, and nothing is okay yet but it will be, maybe, if they don't do anything stupid and screw this up again.

He throws a second plane at Ezio, and hears Connor give a startled laugh from the other end of the room.

Later, when Ezio has retreated away from the barrage of paper airplanes, Connor crosses his arms over his chest and hunches his wings around his shoulders protectively. He gets to his feet, crosses the room and stops a few feet away from Haytham, who stands as well. Normally, Connor is a solid three inches taller than Haytham, but with his shoulders hunched and wings drooping like a weight around his shoulders, he looks three inches shorter instead.

"I saw you leave the place where I found Edward's body," Connor says. "And I was so scared that you were going to turn out just like my father. You'd been following him, remember, you wanted to know what kind of man he was. But still, I… should have trusted you. I just thought, what if you'd been fooling us the entire time?"

"I wasn't," Haytham says.

"I was stupid and scared," Connor says. "I'm still stupid and scared." He hunches even farther into himself, and Haytham can see the obvious effort it takes for him to get the words out. "I'm still having a hard time trusting you."

"I'm not a threat," Haytham snaps, and for a second it looks like they're going to start fighting again. But Connor looks away with a grunt of pain and nods.

"I just need time," he says. "I can't get over this as fast as everyone else."

"Alright," Haytham says. "Good enough, I guess."

He yawns, trying to hide it behind his hand, and Connor rolls his eyes. "When was the last time you slept?" he asks.

"Don't remember," Haytham lies. It's easily been a week since he slept well, and forty eight hours since he had any sleep at all. Between work and the drama here, he feels like he could crash for a week.

"Go to bed!" Ezio yells from the next room.

"Stop eavesdropping," Connor growls back, but he points Haytham at a cot (from what Haytham's seen of the place, they seem to be running out of beds) in apparent agreement. Haytham doesn't argue, and thirty seconds later he's dead to the world.

-/-

He wakes up, disoriented and confused. It's been a long time since he's been able to sleep like that- deeply, without worrying about waking up with a knife in his throat. Connor's been hunting him for a long time, and Haytham has no illusions about the man's skill. He's spent a decade waiting for Connor to find him. He's actually surprised Connor hasn't found him before now- it's just not like Connor to be so… incompetent.

The room is dark and still, and Haytham is momentarily distracted trying to figure out what time it is, exactly. It had been early afternoon when he fell asleep, but now it looks like night. Somewhere around midnight, probably. Briefly, Haytham considers going back to sleep, but now that he's awake, his stomach and bladder are both clamoring for attention. He sights and sits up, stretching the stiffness out of his muscles and flaring his wings until they settle into a more comfortable position. Feathers brush against his bare back as he moves, a comfort and a reminder that he is different.

(Everywhere else, but not here)

He's not the only one in the room. There's a bed on one wall, and a second cot next to the one Haytham had slept on. Judging by the general mess of the room, it's probably Desmond's. But the bed is empty, and Ezio is sprawled face down on the cot, his face buried in his pillow and barely visible behind the bulk of his wings.

Haytham avoids Ezio and goes looking for a bathroom. He finds it on the end of the hall, next to a second bedroom. A glance through the half open door shows him another empty bed and Connor curled on a pile of blankets on the floor. Haytham snorts and shakes his head on the way to the toilet- he's never understood Connor's preference for floors over beds, but at least some things haven't changed.

There are quiet voices drifting up from the first floor when he comes out, so Haytham follows the noise downstairs, moving on silent feet so they won't be heard. Technically, he's welcome here. For now, anyway. But after so long… he just feels out of place here, and it feels more natural to stay as silent and unseen as possible.

He finds Desmond and Altair sitting at the kitchen table, binders and boxes full of papers scattered around them. Desmond's half looks like homework, and Altair's is very familiar- he'd been obsessed with his research- finding out who they would have been if not for the wings and the time travel and everything else.

Haytham, having met the other version of himself, is not nearly as interested.

Judging by the comfortable, familiar air of the room, this is a scene that has played out before. Probably many times. Neither of them is working now, though and Haytham stops at the foot of the stairs, not meaning to listen but not eager to intrude.

"-look worried," Altair is saying, and Desmond makes a half-hearted attempt at shrugging him off.

"I'm fine," he says, in a tone that's basically a question.

"Nope," Altair says. 'Try again."

"It's just… I don't know. School. Finals are coming up, and trying to decide if I want to do college. And all this drama with Haytham and Connor."

"Okay," Altair says. "That sounds like part of it. What's the rest?"

Desmond sighs and looks down at the table. "What would you do if my dad showed up?" he asks. "And wanted me back?"

"Why would you bring that up now?" Altair asks, after a very long pause. "What happened?"

"This girl at school," Desmond mutters. "Rebecca Crane- I don't know if you remember her, she graduated a couple years back."

"The extreme sports girl," Altair says. "With the loud music."

Desmond nods. "She came to see me today. I guess she joined up with the assassins while she was away at school. Met my dad." He sounds completely unenthusiastic about the entire subject, so much so that Haytham raises an eyebrow.

"Oh," Altair says.

"Yea…" Desmond hunches over, tracing some pattern onto the table in front of him. "I guess he's been looking for me."

"And does he know where you are now?" Altair asks.

"No," Desmond says. "I mean- I don't think so. I asked Rebecca not to tell him, I don't think she will, but…"

"Alright then," Altair says, and turns so that he's looking at Desmond straight on. "What do you want from your father?"

"Nothing," Desmond says at once. "I never want to see him again."

"Then you won't," Altair says. "I will do whatever it takes to keep you from him because honestly, he's an asshole."

"You know him?" Desmond asks.

"I keep tabs on the assassins," Altair says. "And the templars. Anyone that might be able to find us. And what your dad's done to the order goes against what we're supposed to be. He's turned the assassins from a brotherhood into a military operation, or a cult or something. Recruits are pulled in because he makes them feel important, and tells them they're going to change the world." He sounds angry, and Haytham is abruptly reminded that just because Altair doesn't do much assassinating himself these days, he's still committed to the order. More than any of them, probably. "But it's all about revenge and death for its own sake, now. They don't even teach the creed anymore."

"Yea," Desmond says. "That sounds like him."

"Desmond…" Altair makes a quick motion, like he's going to reach for Desmond, and then stops abruptly. "I've done a lot in my life. I've seen a lot. But I think getting you away from your father is the best thing I've ever done. I will never- _never_- let him get his hands on you again. I-"

"Thank you," Desmond says, and Haytham steps away as Desmond wraps his arms around a surprised but not unhappy Altair.

Connor's waiting at the top of the stairs, arms crossed and hair tangled from sleep. "Spying?" he asks, and it's hard to tell if he's upset or if this is just his normal life. They look confusingly similar.

"Trying not to, actually," Haytham says. "But I didn't know how to leave without them hearing me." He points down the stairs. "Does that happen a lot?"

Connor shrugs. "Sometimes. Things…" he looks down, goes on in a quieter voice. "Got worse after Edward died and you left. Edward always said the right thing when we started to fight, or fall apart."

"Usually by accident," Haytham says, and Connor uncrosses his arms.

"Yea," he agrees. "And you were one of us too. _Are_ one of us, I guess." He adds this last part almost reluctantly. "It's too quiet now. There's not enough of us. I don't know. Maybe things will change again, now."

Haytham isn't entirely sure what Connor expects from him, or what to say. So he nods and starts to move past him.

"Wait," Connor says. "Wait."

"What?"

"1204 South Main Street," Connor says. "Room 592."

"What-" Haytham feels a bolt of something icy cold go through his stomach.

"224 Dryad Park. 804 East Third Street," Connor goes on, and he's not looking at the ground now. He's staring Haytham straight in the eye. "701 Chestnut Circle."

It's a list of every place Haytham's stayed at since coming to the twenty first century, and suddenly he understands. He'd been wondering, earlier, why it had taken Connor over a decade to find him, but the truth was, it hadn't. "You've know where I am all along."

Connor nods. "I can't trust you yet," he says. "Not yet. But that's my fault, not yours. I'm working on it. And I wanted you to know…"

"You never did anything," Haytham says. "You could have killed me at any point in the last ten years. So why-"

"I don't know," Connor says. "But I'm- I think I'm glad you're alive. And that you're back."

**-/-**

**So the next few chapters (hopefully) will be focusing less on father/son issues and more on getting shit moving again. Sorry for the continued drama/angsting, I just can't help myself I guess.**


	17. Chapter 13

The next several months fly by so quickly that Desmond sometimes feels like he's hanging on for dear life. Between finishing his final classes, continued training with Altair, flying, applying for college, and worrying that his dad is going to suddenly show up, he's constantly stressed and worried.

He's so busy, it's not until the day before he's due to leave that Desmond has time to second guess the decisions he's made lately. He hasn't left home for more than a few days since Altair first took him in, and as hard as it is to admit, the idea of leaving is… sort of terrifying.

Desmond had thought he was used to keeping secrets. He's gotten used to lying to everyone he meets, and hiding his wings when people are around, and not talking too much about his family. But it's going to be even harder at school. He's going to be in the middle of a city- New York, actually- with no place to fly and no one around that knows his secrets.

No one but Haytham, technically. Honestly, the research Haytham is doing (birds and flight and wings- their wings) is one of the biggest reasons Desmond decided to go to that particular school in the first place. He loves flying. He loves his wings. They've been a part of him for so long by now, he can barely remember what it felt like to be fully human, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to understand them, and himself.

So he applies, and is accepted (animal sciences), and is all set to leave in the morning when suddenly he realizes exactly what he'll be leaving behind, and panics. Just completely flips shit and runs (flies) off without telling anyone where he's going or why. He doesn't actually know himself, but Altair is still somehow there when Desmond lands, waiting for him.

"I don't want to leave," Desmond says, without preamble. He's panting from the exertion of flying too hard and too fast, and the words come out in a scrambled rush. "I don't think I can do it."

"You'll be fine," Altair says.

"What if I'm not?" Desmond asks, and in that moment he could have been eight years old again, terrified and needing Altair to tell him everything will be alright. "What if-"

Altair surprises him by stepping forward so that they're inches away from each other, and taking him by the shoulders. Not counting Connor- who apparently has an aversion to touching that borders on phobic- Altair touches less than anyone Desmond knows. But he's looking at Desmond now with a kind of fierce pride, a golden, birdlike glint in his eyes.

"You're not the child you were when we first met," he says. "You needed me then but you're strong enough to survive on your own now. I know that."

"How can you possibly know?" Desmond asks. "I've never been on my own before."

"Because I watched you grow up," Altair says. "You're strong, Desmond, more than strong enough to deal with whatever life has to throw at you."

"But-"

Altair doesn't give him a chance to interrupt, talking right over Desmond in the kind of voice that allows no argument. "Whatever you do with your life, I have absolutely no doubt that it will be amazing. I am already more proud of you than I thought it was possible to be."

Desmond nods. He hadn't known how badly he needed to hear that, not until that exact moment, but there it is. For years, Desmond has allowed himself to look at Altair as a kind of surrogate father. The dad he wished he had instead of the one that had raised him for the first eight years of his life. He's sort of suspected that Altair feels the same way, but this is the first time he's really _known_.

After he leaves, Altair isn't going to just forget him, or move on with his life. They're as much family as they can be without being related by blood, and that's not going to change just because Desmond's going away to college. "You'll still be here," he says. "For summers, and holidays-"

"For anytime you need me," Altair says.

-/-

The memory of that night keeps Desmond going over the next four years, whenever things start going badly. When he's buried under an impossible amount of work, or missing his wings, or just more alone than usual, the knowledge that he's not alone- that he's part of a family- makes him keep trying. Over and over again, until things go right.

And it's not like college is entirely bad. Desmond genuinely likes working with birds. When he can't fly, they always can. Watching an eagle in flight is nowhere near as good as flying himself, but it's something. And getting to know Haytham better isn't too bad. The man can be an absolute asshole when he wants to be, but he knows a lot about his work, and it turns out he actually has a sense of humor (sort of).

Besides, Desmond is busy enough all the time now to keep himself from feeling too homesick. Over four years, coursework, research, and a part time job at a local bar (way more fun than it should have been) conspire to take up more and more of his time, until one day he blinks and realizes he's got less than a week left before graduation.

That's when Altair comes to visit him.

It's not the first time that's happened, but usually he gives some kind of a warning. At least enough so that Desmond has time to get his laundry done and clean up his room a little. But this time he gets back from class and finds Altair sitting on his bed and looking worried. His hair is a windblown mess that tells Desmond he's only just flown in, and whatever he's come for must be important.

"What's wrong?" Desmond asks, without wasting time on pleasantries or small talk. Something is wrong, he can feel it in the creeping unhappiness that seeps through the room, and it has him on edge. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Altair says, which is obviously a lie. "At least, nothing yet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Desmond asks.

"Abstergo is looking for you," Altair says, in a deliberately calm voice that tells Desmond exactly how worried he is about this.

"Why?"

"Do you remember Vidic?" Altair asks, and Desmond snorts.

"Hard to forget," he says. Waking up in the hospital and finding out the doctor that saved his eyesight is also a templar had been… kind of a shock. "Why?"

"He's the one looking for you," Altair says. "Under your birth name, luckily, so as far as I can tell he hasn't realized that he's already met you."

"Good," Desmond says. "I guess." Honestly, the idea of Vidic looking for him under any circumstances has him nervous. "But… I mean, why me?"

"I have no idea," Altair says bluntly. "If we had that much information on them, Vidic would already be dead, but I have no idea where he is, much less what he's planning." He takes a breath and then goes on. "I know you're not going to want to hear this, but you're not safe here now. It's only a matter of time until he gets to you, and I… cannot let that happen. You need to leave. Go somewhere safer, somewhere Vidic and Abstergo won't be able to find you."

Desmond frowns. Until now, he's been standing with his back to the door, facing Altair, but now he moves farther into the room and dumps his backpack on the ground. He doesn't say anything, but his mind is racing. Going into hiding now will mean running for the rest of his life, and he does not want that. That would make him nothing but a coward, and Desmond was raised better than that.

"No," he says, turning back to Altair.

"No what?"

"I can't spend the rest of my life running and hiding," Desmond says. "I need to know what Vidic wants from me, and then I need to stop him." He's afraid that if he stops long enough for Altair to say anything, he's going to let himself be talked out of this, so he rushes on before he can lose his nerve. Until now, he's never argued with Altair over anything more important than directions, and he doesn't much like it now. If this hadn't been so important, he wouldn't have had the guts to keep going. "The only way I can think of to do that is to let him find me. Otherwise, I'll never know what he's planning."

"He might kill you," Altair says.

"He won't," Desmond says. "I think…. I think you taught me to be a survivor. All those years of training, I don't think I'm going to just lie down and die when he finds me." He doesn't know much about Vidic, but he does know the man's a templar. The kind of man his family- both biological and adopted- have spent their lives fighting. And more importantly, he knows what he's seen with his own eyes. The memory of the bright red (blood red) aura of the man in eagle vision still has the same clarity in his memory today that it had on the day he first saw it.

And Altair smiles, like Desmond has just passed some kind of test. "I thought you might say that," he says. "I'd hoped you would, but I wanted to see if you would come up with the idea on your own."

"Well, I did," Desmond says. "So what happens next?"

-/-

What happens next is that Desmond is given a new identity and a new life, and sent out into the world to catch Vidic's attention. Altair is convinced that the best way to get Desmond through this alive is to convince Vidic to underestimate him in every possible way.

So Desmond spends the next three years working low wage jobs, bartending mostly, because it's loud and it's obvious and he's got some experience from school. He goes through a series of crap apartments all over the city, never staying in one place long enough to make friends or leave an impression. He wants to catch Vidic's attention, but he doesn't want to drag anyone else down with him.

He very rarely sees anyone. Connections to his old life are dangerous, so Desmond only ever sees Altair and the others in occasional, pseudo accidental meetings. Chance encounters while buying groceries, random meetings on street corners, run-ins that could have happened between any two strangers. It's a cold, lonely life, and after three years Desmond is sick and tired of it all. The only thing he has left in his life is the occasional flight, away from prying eyes and never long enough to really satisfy him.

It would be really great, Desmond decides, if Vidic would stop sucking so much at his job and just find him already. Then he could get all this over with and go back to his real life. But that never happens, and so- on his twenty fifth birthday- Desmond gets roaring drunk (something he rarely does) and makes what is quite possibly the stupidest decision of his life. The next morning, he goes out and gets a job using his real name. If Vidic can't find him now, the man doesn't deserve to be looking.

The bar is called Bad Weather, which Desmond decides to take as an omen. Bad Weather- bad luck- is exactly what he's looking for. It's not his kind of place, too loud, full of air headed frat boys and their size zero girlfriends. But eventually, it does its job, and one chilly night in early fall Desmond hears soft footsteps behind him, and someone call his name.

"Desmond Miles?"

Desmond stops dead in his tracks. He's in an alley behind Bad Weather, between a dumpster and a brick wall. In a lot of ways, it's not unlike the place where Altair found him as a child. Appropriate, then.

He can't stop the smile that spreads across his face at the sound of his name, and doesn't bother to try. It's dark here, with a flickering streetlamp casting the only light onto the scene. Desmond has his back to the man, and he knows his face is completely hidden. "Who wants to know?" he asks, and he's careful to pitch his voice just right. A little bit drunk and a little bit afraid. Exactly what these people will be expecting of him.

The man laughs, and the next thing Desmond knows, there's a cloth pressed over his face and the sickly smell of chloroform thick in his nose and throat. His vision goes dark and he would have hit the ground if the man hadn't grabbed him at the last second. The last thing he hears is the man's voice, quiet and mocking in his ear. "Welcome to the animus project."

At that moment, despite the chloroform and the kidnapping and the confusing reference to an animus (whatever that is), Desmond feels nothing but triumph. This is what he's wanted, after all. For three years, he's been waiting for Vidic to find him, and now he finally has. Even with all his instincts screaming at him to run, fight back, fly, _anything_, Desmond does nothing.

It won't be until much later, when Desmond understands the full consequences of what Vidic wants, when he knows what the animus actually is, that he'll realize what a huge mistake he's made.

**-/-**

**So here's another time skip, mostly because I really wanted to get to the animus. Fun stuff coming up. So much fun stuff.**


	18. Chapter 14

Desmond wakes in a body that is not his own, and screams. It's all he can do at the moment, with the world swimming and blurring around him, with a constant barrage of noise in some language he dimly recognizes but can't quite name, with every sense he has telling him that this is wrong. Desmond falls, off balance and heavy in a way that doesn't make sense. His whole body feels different, and he knows exactly why.

His wings are _gone_. Not hidden, not hurt, _gone_, as though they had never been. And it's not just the wings. Every change that his body went through seventeen years ago to help him fly has been undone, and the horrifying feeling of being tied to the ground like this has Desmond writhing on the ground and convinced he's losing his mind.

He hears voices yelling in his ear but he doesn't bother listening, just curls up and screams until suddenly the world dissolves around him and Desmond's eyes fly open to see a world that is very different from the broken, messed up one he'd seen only seconds ago. He's flat on his back on a table with a clear glass visor stretched across his face.

Desmond jumps, hits his face on the visor, and slides out from underneath before it can slide all the way back. He drops to the floor and backs away, breathing hard and reaching over his shoulder with one hand. When he feels the familiar scar tissue his wings are hiding behind, he heaved a huge sigh of relief and finally looks around the rest of the room.

The room itself is uninteresting, sparsely furnished in shades of white, but Desmond can see the glint of cameras covering every inch of the space. The only noteworthy feature is the table he'd woken up on, and he doesn't want anything to do with whatever that is.

There's a man and a woman standing on the other side of the table, and Desmond turns his attention to them next. The woman, around his own age and wearing an expression of confused pity, is a stranger, but he recognizes the man right away. Vidic is older and somehow angrier looking, but still instantly recognizable.

"What's going on?" Desmond asks, into the silence of the room.

Vidic snorts and turns his back on Desmond, focusing his attentions instead on the monitor set against the side of the table. "Unbelievable," he says. "Years spent tracking you down, and within five minutes you've managed to break the most expensive piece of technology you've ever seen in your life."

Desmond takes a deep breath, gathers his scattered thoughts, and remembers that this is supposed to be happening. He's here _on purpose_, to find out what Vidic wants him for. It just so happens that he's apparently going to like the answers a lot less than he'd been expecting.

"I want some answers," he says, in a voice that's not nearly as forceful as he'd intended it to be. "Who are you, what do you want, and why am I here?"

"Deal with this," Vidic snaps, and the woman jumps a little, hurrying over to where Desmond stands with his back to the wall.

"Hi," she says. "I'm Lucy Stillman."

He crosses his arms and forces himself out of the defensive position he'd fallen into automatically. Even from just the cursory look he's gotten already, he can tell that getting out of here won't be easy. Cameras, locked doors, and who knows what other security measures stand between him and freedom, and the more he looks like he knows what he's doing, the less freedom Vidic and his lackeys are going to allow him.

She gives him a quick, nervous smile when he stays silent, and moves closer so that they can talk without being overheard by Vidic. Not that he looks all that interested in them, at the moment. Apparently, whatever's gone wrong on his computer is more interesting than this conversation. "I know," she says. "Not the best way to wake up."

"What was that?" Desmond asks. "Those things I saw-"

"It's called an animus," Lucy says. "A way of reliving your ancestor's memories."

"Why would anyone want to do that?" Desmond asks. "I mean- what's the point?

Lucy doesn't answer right away- instead, she glances over her shoulder at Vidic. Her face and body language remind Desmond of a cornered animal, and he wonders what Vidic's done to make her so afraid. He'd assumed at first that the two of them were working together, but already Lucy is giving off the impression of someone that's more like a captive than a cohort. "To find answers," she says. "The truth."

"And if I'm not interested in the truth?" Desmond demands. "I don't have to get back in that thing. Animus. Whatever."

"Frankly, Mr. Miles," Vidic drawls from his place at the computer- apparently he had been listening. "I don't care what you want. You are my prisoner and you will do as I say."

"Or else what?" Desmond demands.

"I'll induce a coma and you'll do what we want anyway," Vidic says. "You don't have to be a willing participant for this to work, but it will be much more pleasant for you if you are."

And he'll also be a lot more able to find answers if he's conscious. And so, although it goes against every ounce of training he has, Desmond nods and takes several steps toward Vidic and the animus. "Fine," he says. "I do this, and you'll let me go. Right?"

Vidic looks up from his work long enough to smirk at him. "Of course," he says, in a voice that wouldn't have fooled a child. Desmond pretends not to notice anyway. "Lie down," Vidic says. "Something in your DNA is corrupting my data and I need to isolate it before we can continue."

"What does that mean?" he asks.

Vidic gives a show of sighing, like he's being forced to deal with a particularly slow child. "Your genes give me access to your ancestors' memories. Your ancestors happen to have knowledge that I want-"

"What kind of knowledge?" Desmond interrupts.

"The kind that's none of your business," Vidic says. "But your DNA has some mutation that's interfering with my systems, and until I figure out a way around it, I can't get what I want. So lie down, and let me fix this."

That must be the wings, Desmond realizes. With all the changes that happened at the same time as his wings grew in, he's known for a while that he's not exactly human anymore. At least it sounds like Vidic doesn't know exactly what's wrong with him- the last thing he wants is the templars finding out he can fly.

"Down," Vidic says again, and Desmond reluctantly follows the instruction. He feels helpless on his back like this, and uncomfortable from the way the cold metal digs into the scars on his back.

"So," he says after a too long stretch of silence. "You said ancestor."

"Yes," Vidic snaps.

"How far back is that?"

"Twelfth century," Lucy pipes up, and in his peripheral vision Desmond watches Vidic scowl at her. "Why?"

"Well- it seems like someone that lived that long ago would have a lot of descendants," Desmond says. "More than just me, anyway. So- why did you spend- what did you say, _years_ looking for me?"

"Because the more similar the descendant is to the ancestor, the better the synch," Vidic says. "Your ancestor was an assassin, and so are you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Desmond mutters.

"Don't bother, Mr. Miles," Vidic says. "We know all about you. That you were born an assassin and ran away as a child. That you spent years on the streets and finally turned up tending bar in New York. We know that you're a loser and a waste of perfectly good genetic information. We know everything important about you, and trust me, that's not much."

Desmond barely manages to hide a smile. They know nothing, and that's the first good news he's heard since waking up. He'd been a little worried about Vidic recognizing him, but he had been a child then. He has changed a lot since then, and Vidic doesn't seem to be the kind of person that cares to remember any random stranger he meets.

"Fine," he mutters, pretending to be insulted by what Vidic's said. "So- who is he? This ancestor?"

"He-"

"We're back online," Vidic says, before Lucy can finish her sentence. "And you'll meet him for yourself soon enough."

-/-

There's no warning before Vidic starts the animus program, just an abrupt transition from the real world to an eerie white nothingness, like a three dimensional loading screen. It's like he's stepped into a computer world, and it takes Desmond a second to realize that's exactly what he's done.

"Alright," Lucy says, and Desmond is grateful to hear her voice instead of Vidic's. As necessary as he knows this is to find out what Vidic is after, he's starting to feel nervous about the whole thing. He's not in the mood to hear Vidic gloat- Lucy, at least, seems sympathetic. "We're going to load you into the memory more slowly this time. That should prevent the violent reaction you experienced last time."

Desmond nods, even though he's not sure if Lucy can see him, and waits for something to happen.

It doesn't take long, and Lucy's right. This time, the change creeps over him slowly, allowing Desmond to gradually notice every individual difference as it happens. And it should be better this way, but somehow it's worse. It's like losing control of every part of himself, shedding his own skin and becoming someone else. He watches as his skin darkens, and scars appear across his body, new injuries and old, markers of fights and accidents he's never lived through.

Next, his body shudders, shivering like he's just stepped into a freezing winter night, and changes. Whoever this ancestor is, he's just different enough from Desmond to be really noticeable. He's several inches shorter, a little more muscular, and his bearing is significantly changed. That's the weirdest part- Desmond tries to shift into a more comfortable posture, the way of standing and walking and _being _that he's used to using, but the body he's in rebels against it, forcing Desmond into the stance that _it _prefers.

And then- the worst part, the part Desmond has been dreading since the beginning. His wings are hidden, motionless behind the scars and skin on his back, but he can feel them curling up like dead leaves inside him, shriveling and vanishing. His bones thicken and turn from hollow to sturdy. It's not painful, not exactly, but he itches all over and despite his suddenly smaller stature, he feels heavy. Earthbound.

Trapped.

He reaches one hand over his shoulder, the way he had when he'd first come out of the animus, and shudders as his fingers brush over smooth skin instead of the scars that should be there. He's expected it, but it doesn't make the confirmation any easier to bear, and Desmond is starting to seriously regret letting himself get caught by Vidic as he pulls his hand away from his skin. As he does, he notices that one of the fingers on his left hand is missing, cut off at the knuckle.

It's an old mark that Desmond only knows from stories, a way of marking members of the Brotherhood and facilitating early hidden blade designs. It's been out of use for centuries, and Desmond stares at it as the animus completes its final few changes. But these are costume changes, trading in jeans and a hoodie for robes and weapons, barely noticeable compared to the other changes.

And then Lucy's quiet, almost apologetic voice announces that they've finished, and that they're ready to load the world around him. Desmond watches, more relieved than anything else, because at least the changes aren't happening to him specifically.

Then he's suddenly moving, hurrying forward even though he doesn't know where he's going or why. It just seems right, and Desmond realizes that this must be the memory he's supposed to be reliving. He's moving because this is the way his ancestor moved, and that's _insanely _freaky. But it only gets worse as the memory goes on, as Desmond's ancestor speaks, moves, argues with the two assassins that are working with him.

He shadows every move his ancestor made, almost without thinking about it. And the hardest part is how easy it is, because every action he takes feels like it's coming from him, rather than his ancestor. The sensation of being in-control-but-not is so strange that for a while it's all Desmond can think about. He's barely even paying attention to the scene as it plays out around him, and it's not until his ancestor pulls a blade that Desmond realizes something is wrong.

Because in that blade- cared for and polished with obvious attention to detail- Desmond can see the face of his ancestor, and it's one he knows well.

"Altair," he whispers, staring at his reflection in the blade. And he doesn't move for a long time, not until the lack of movement forces the memory to a crashing end, replacing the dingy cave (Solomon's Temple, from what little he's been paying attention to in the memory so far) with the same white loading screen from before. And even then, it takes nearly ten solid minutes of Vidic ranting and screaming at him before Desmond feels well enough to react at all.

Luckily, Vidic seems to put his freezing down as a reaction to the animus, and only yells at him to get back in the memory and try again. And so, too numb and confused to do anything else, that's exactly what Desmond does. He has no idea what's going on, or how the Altair from the animus can possibly fit in with the Altair that raised him. All he can do for now is follow along with Vidic's orders and hope that he'll be able to figure the answers out eventually.

Or, preferably, soon.


	19. Chapter 15

Altair is on a roof across the street when templars finally come for Desmond. He's been watching a lot, actually, waiting for exactly this to happen. And until that moment, he hadn't known how he would react. Part of him- quite a large part- wants to stop the van, kill every templar inside, and leave with Desmond. Letting him go is, without question, the hardest thing he's ever done. But Altair does it anyway, even though he's holding the roof with a white knuckled death grip by the end, he lets the van leave. Desmond is twenty five years old and a fully trained assassin, even if he's never officially taken the title. He deserves to make this decision on his own, and Altair truly believes that Desmond will make it through this alve.

It's still hard. Altair remembers a conversation he had been when Desmond had first gone away to school. An overemotional woman in the dormitory parking lot had spent a solid half hour telling him, with mind numbing completeness, every detail of her son's life and how worried she was about him leaving home for the first time.

"You try to teach your kids what you can," she'd said. "But you can't be sure what they've actually learned until they're making their own choices and doing their own thing." And Altair had nodded and mumbled something in agreement, even though he's privately thought she was overreacting. After all, if she didn't trust him enough to believe he would make the right choices under pressure, she had no business sending her son off to school in the first place.

Altair has never shared that concern, and in all honesty he's never even understood it before. But now, as he watches templars drug and abduct Desmond, Altair knows exactly what she'd been trying to say. Logically, he knows he's done everything in his power to prepare Desmond for this moment. He's well trained, intelligent, and reasonably good at escaping tough situations. He's _ready _for this, but…

But what if he's not? Desmond's never killed a man before, never been in a position where he'd have to. For better or for worse, they've all been shielding Desmond since he'd first fallen into their lives seventeen years ago. He'd never complained of being given a normal life over the life of an assassin, and Altair had been glad to give it to him. In all honesty, it had been something of a rest for all of them. After years (centuries) of travel and constantly being uprooted from one century to another, their pseudo normal life of the past few years has been badly needed.

But if that normal life means Desmond isn't as prepared as he should be, it will be entirely Altair's fault. Maybe there are skills or knowledge that Desmond should have that Altair had never been able to give him. Or-

Just possibly, maybe he'll be alright. In any case, Altair has to operate as though he will be. That means having an escape route ready for him after Desmond has had time to find out what Vidic's after. More than likely, almost certainly, he'll be taken to the facility in Italy where Vidic's done his work for the past several years. Altair's never been there, but Ezio has (the man has an incorrigible love of danger and excitement that has led him all over the world and into every kind of trouble), and from the sound of it the building won't be easy to break into or out of.

Not without help, anyway, and so Altair turns his back on the departing van, mind already working furiously to come up with a plan. It's been, technically, nine centuries since Altair has worked with any assassins outside his little group. Ezio, Connor, Haytham, Desmond- they are the exception, not the rule, and going to the order for help now feels… strange. Altair has gotten used to living in the shadows and pretending not to exist. His time has come and gone, and he's missed whatever chance he might have had to do anything.

But this isn't about him anymore. This is about Desmond, and so Altair does not hesitate at all in making his decision.

-/-

He hasn't been to Italy since the Renaissance, and even knowing that it's changed (it's impossible not to know, given how much Ezio complains every time he goes anywhere near the country), he's still surprised. Altair's more or less gotten used to the twenty first century by this point, but it's still jarring to revisit a place he'd spent so much time in centuries ago. It's particularly when passing through Rome, a city that wears its history on its sleeve, and Altair is in a foul mood when he finally reaches the apartment he knows is an assassin safe house.

Despite never having been there before, the building stands out against the other warehouses in the district. It literally stands out, shining an eye searing blue in his eagle vision. That's part of the reason he's never had trouble keeping tabs on the assassins or templars, no matter what century he's in. It's not hard, given that their every secret stands out in color coded glory to him.

Getting in isn't hard either. Altair spends a couple hours watching the place, checking for security and finding only cameras. He's disappointed but not surprised to see that the cell here is too low on people to do patrols or keep anyone on watch. A place like this, given the current numbers in the brotherhood, shouldn't have more than four or five people at any given time, and could have considerably less.

But that does at least make it easy to slip inside without being noticed. The cameras are easy to avoid, and Altair stalks through the warehouse with his hood pulled up to hide his face for nearly five minutes without seeing anyone. It's not until he spies a suite of rooms on the top floor that he stops, crouching on an exposed ceiling beam under a ceiling light whose bulb needs changing.

It's obvious that the people here are only just moving in. There are piles of boxes and equipment scattered everywhere, and he can hear thuds from somewhere in the distance. After fifteen minutes or so, Altair has only seen one person, a British man who looks extremely unhappy with being assigned the job of unpacking. His constant stream of sarcastic ranting makes that very clear, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Altair almost laughs as the monologue gets progressively more over the top.

He times his jump so that he'll land behind the man just as his rant reaches a climax, and the man jumps six inches into the air while swearing loudly. So- clearly no combat training. But this is the twenty first century, and technology can be just as effective as weapons in the right circumstances. Altair frowns but decides he's not ready to give up quite yet. Just because this guy looks useless doesn't mean he is.

"Who are you?" the man demands. "How did you get in here?"

"Cameras aren't as effective a deterrent as guards," Altair says, completely ignoring the first question.

"But- listen, what do you want?" The man's eyes flick down to where Altair wears his hidden blades, and his face twists in confusion. "Are you- you're an assassin?"

"Yes," Altair says.

"Alright," the man says, and frowns with an impressive amount of composure for someone that had just been jumped in his own safe house. "So, _if _that's true-" and Altair nods approvingly at the skepticism- "What are you doing here? And you still haven't told me your name."

"You haven't told me yours."

"Shaun," says the man. "Hastings."

Altair gives him the false name he's been using since he first came to this century without even a second's thought. It's habit by now to hide his identity, and 'Altair' is the kind of name that stands out in peoples' memories. Then he presses on before Shaun has a chance to ask more questions. "I'm here with information."

He doesn't tell Shaun everything. Actually, he barely tells him anything. Just that the templars have taken someone, that they have been tracking him for years now, and that at some point (some point soon) he's going to need an extraction. Somehow, he manages to say this with an absolutely emotionless voice, without betraying his connection to Desmond at all.

"You're talking about Desmond Miles," Shaun says when he's done. "How do you know about him?"

"How do you?" Altair asks, startled.

And now it's Shaun's turn for explanations. He gives Altair a cursory explanation of something called the animus project, something that Altair had known nothing about, and makes his blood turn cold. When Shaun explains what they know of the bleeding effect, Altair turns and swears aloud. He does not want Desmond exposed to that for a single second longer than he has to be.

"We're getting him out," Shaun says, when Altair finally runs out of expletives. "That's why we're here, actually- whatever the templars want from his ancestors, they can't get it. Besides, his dad's the mentor, and he's been looking for him for a long time."

"Good," Altair says.

"We have someone on the inside," Shaun says. "She's supposed to bring him to us, as soon as she can."

"How good is she?" Altair asks.

"Good enough," Shaun says. "Hopefully. Hey-" and he's shouting now, because Altair has turned and is striding quickly away. "Where are you going?"

"To get backup," Altair growls. "Because _hopefully_ isn't good enough."

-/-

Haytham is easy to find. Since getting back in contact with them, he's been careful about staying in contact. Connor, conveniently enough, is nearby, and therefore easy to track as well. Ezio, however, causes problems. His continuing quest for the missing pieces of Eden often sends him to remote parts of the world, and Altair has no idea where he is right now. So it's only the three of them that are on hand when, a week or so later, Desmond is smuggled out of the Abstergo building.

The assassin that's been undercover as a templar, a woman named Lucy, gets him out without any trouble. Or at least, without any trouble she doesn't seem capable of handling. Altair is nearby but hidden for the whole event, and when it's over he nearly falls off his feet in relief. He doesn't, though, just sits down on the roof of the warehouse and tries to keep himself from shaking.

Haytham's the one that comes to find him, flying up on silent wings and landing on the roof. Normally, Altair would say something about flying in a populated area, but the night is dark and Haytham's wings are nearly black. Besides, Altair is too tired to say anything. In the end, it's Haytham that speaks first. "So," he says. "What are we doing here, exactly?"

"I told you," Altair says.

"You told me we were here for Desmond," Haytham says. "But the assassins here have him covered pretty well, and you haven't even seen him."

Altair nods. Once. "This was a mistake," he says. It's the first time he's admitted it out loud, but not the first time he's admitted it to himself. "The assassins- they already knew about Vidic's research and what he wanted Desmond for. Sending him in was a waste of time, and it might have destroyed his mind." He's explained what the bleeding effect can do already- the only question now is exactly what it's done to Desmond. "I failed him."

"He agreed," Haytham says.

"He didn't know the risks!" Altair snaps.

"And neither did you, so stop blaming yourself." They glare at each other for a long while, until finally it starts to rain, and Altair is forced to look away and blink the water away from his face. "You should talk to him," he says. "You know Desmond's never going to blame you for this."

"But I don't," Altair says. "The bleeding effect- I have no idea what it's done to his mind."

Haytham snorts and crosses the space between them, grabbing Altair by the forearm and hauling him to his feet. "Come on," he says. "I understand that you feel responsible for this, and you're panicking and acting irrationally."

"I'm not-"

"Then why are we all here?" Haytham asks. "We didn't travel halfway around the world to just stand on a roof, did we?"

Altair pulls away from Haytham, angry and defensive. The truth is, he's scared and powerless and not thinking straight. He wants to see Desmond, to make sure he's okay. But he's terrified that he won't be, and that fear is the reason they're still hidden on a roof instead of inside.

"Come on," Haytham says, again. "Take it from the guy who spent years on his own because none of us knows how to _talk _to each other. Ignoring Desmond is exactly the wrong thing to do here."

"Fine," Altair says. "I'll go see him tonight."


	20. Chapter 16

Desmond is twitchy and jumpy the entire time he's trapped in Abstergo, off balance and constantly sick. It's an awful experience, one long, miserable slog through the mind of an ancestor he barely recognizes, broken up by periods of throwing up and tripping over his own feet and hallucinating. He's vaguely aware that this isn't supposed to be happening. Lucy is constantly by his side, asking questions, wanting to know how he feels and what he's seeing and what's wrong now. Even Vidic looks concerned, although from the grumbled complaints Desmond overhears, it's obvious that he's more worried about losing his investment than in Desmond's health.

"It's happening too quickly," he hears Lucy tell Vidic one day, when they think he's not listening. Actually, Desmond is curled up on the crap bed he's been given, knees pressed against his stomach in the vague hope it'll make the nausea less intense, and arms wrapped around himself so that his fingers just barely brush the scars on his back. Small comfort, but he needs it.

"I know," Vidic snaps, and there's an angry note of frustration in his voice. "None of the other subjects deteriorated this quickly. There's something wrong with the way he's interfacing with his ancestors' genetic memories, some mutation in his DNA or something…" Desmond hears a dull thud like Vidic's hit something, and winces at the way it makes his ears ring. "If it was anyone else, I'd suggest termination, but we need the information his ancestors have."

The voices drop off after that, and for a while Desmond is swimming in murky blackness, confused and not entirely certain what century he's in or what his name is. Sometimes he wishes he could just run away, jump out the window and fly until all his problems are far away. Then in the next instant he'll wonder what's wrong with him, and why he'd imagined it would be possible for a human to fly…

He has no idea how long this lasts, but at some point Lucy comes to him and grabs him the arm. "Come on," she says. "We're leaving."

_"Where are we going?"_ he asks, and dimly recognizes that he hadn't spoken in English (then he wonders why he should have, when he's spoken Arabic his whole life).

Lucy frowns and drags him with her, through hallways, down elevators, and finally into a car. Every so often, guards appear with weapons in hand to try and stop them, but it's all Alta- _Desmond_ can do to stay on his feet, so it's lucky that Lucy is there.

He passes out sometime during the car ride and, mercifully, does not dream. Lately, his nightmares have been even more terrifying than the real world, and he's not sorry that he knows nothing else until he wakes up in an unknown room, on a much more comfortable bed than the one at Abstergo. He opens his eyes and sees Altair on a chair nearby, watching him with tired, worried eyes.

For a while, Desmond just lies there and watches him, blinking sleepily as he waits for his thoughts to drag themselves out of sleep and gather into something cohesive. He's confused and not entirely sure what he's seeing. He doesn't know if the Altair in front of him is the one from the animus, and therefore nothing but a hallucination of his crumbling mind, or the one that raised him, and therefore the person he wants to see more than anyone else in the world.

(And then there's the part of his mind that keeps insisting he's looking at himself, but for the moment, Desmond is still lucid enough to ignore that)

He sits up, reaching for the scars on his back in a gesture he recognizes is quickly becoming neurotic. When he's reassured that they're still there, that his wings are still there, he looks back at Altair. As if this is the sign he's been waiting for, the man starts talking. "You should never have been there," he says, and his voice is completely emotionless. In anyone else it would have made his words sound insincere, but Desmond knows him well enough by now to recognize that he's keeping a tight control over his emotions. "I'm sorry you went in, and I'm sorry I couldn't get you out sooner. I-"

But Desmond isn't listening, at least not more than he needs to in order to figure out that this is real, rather than a hallucination.

"Dad…" his voice is a pleading croak, but Desmond doesn't care. He's having a hard time caring about anything much, even that he's just called Altair _dad_. He's never done that before, because as much as he's wanted to (for years, since he was a child), he's afraid Altair won't be okay with it. Right now, that worry seems unimportant in the face of the crushing, shredding pain that keeps threatening to peel his mind apart like an onion. Even knowing he's years too old, Desmond just wants to be held until the world makes sense again.

It turns out Altair doesn't mind the title, judging by the way he leans forward and wraps his wings around Desmond as they sprout from his back, drawing him in and blocking out the rest of the world. They stay like that for a long time, until Desmond can speak again. "Where are we?"

"An assassin cell," Altair says. "They were the ones that got you out, although I couldn't tell you why, since they want to stick you back in an animus." He snorts. "And as far as they know, I'm actually _not_ here, so I shouldn't stay much longer."

Desmond reaches with one hand and grabs Altair by the upper arm. It's an involuntary motion, as is the sad, terrified noise that tears from his throat. He's never heard a sound like that, not from a person, anyway. But he _has_ heard it- one time, while working at an animal rescue at college, he'd seen an eagle whose wings had been shredded in a fight with a bigger, tougher bird. It had died hours later, but its dying scream have never left Desmond's memory.

"Don't go," Desmond whines. He hates the needy weakness in his voice, but he can't be alone right now.

"I'll stay as long as you need," Altair says, obviously alarmed. "But you need to talk to me. What did you see in the animus?"

"You know about that?"

"I found out a couple days ago," Altair says. "And I'm sorry. I never should have let you go in. I wouldn't have, if I'd known then."

"_Let_ me?" Desmond asks. "I made my own choice. And…" he stops, thinking over what he's going to say next, because honestly he can't believe it. But it's not until this moment, as Altair looks like he's about to try and take responsibility for Desmond's mistake, that he realizes this isn't a mistake at all. "And I would do it again."

Altair draws back so quickly it looks like he's been bitten by a snake. "What?"

"I heard things when I was at Abstergo," Desmond says. "A lot of things, actually…" for a second, he loses his line of thought, because not everything he'd heard had actually happened. There had been a lot of hallucinations toward the end.

"Des?"

He snaps back to the present, shaking his head sharply. "Sorry. Um… basically, I don't know why, but they're desperate to get their hands on some of those pieces of Eden Ezio's always looking for. They have some kind of plan, and they were using my ancestor's memories to find them. So that means… we need to find them first."

"You want to go back in," Altair says.

"I don't want to," Desmond says. "But- I mean, this isn't just me. It's the whole world."

"Your mind's falling apart," Altair says, and Desmond winces at the brutal honesty in his voice. "How much more do you think you can take?"

"As much as I need to," Desmond says.

Altair takes a deep breath and settles back in his chair, arms crossed. "Tell me what it was like," he says, and Desmond sighs.

"Awful," he says. "And it's still awful. I can't keep track of who I am, I can't remember my _own name half the time, and every time I go in the animus my wings are just gone-_" compulsively, he reaches again for his scars, just to reassure himself they're still there. As he does, he catches the look on Altair's face, and reruns what he'd just said in his mind. _"And sometimes I just switch languages and can't go back. I see things, hear things. I feel like there's something in my head and it's trying to get me to be different-"_

He stops abruptly then, because a memory has suddenly slammed into him full force, and for once it's his own. Because he'd said exactly that to Altair once before. When he'd been very, very young, with his wings just grown in, too small to fight the instincts that had come with the other changes. He'd been half feral then, and scared of what he was going to become.

"Genetic memory," he says, in English this time. "That's basically instinct, isn't it?"

"I'd say that's exactly what instinct is," Altair says. "Why?"

"Because I know about instinct," Desmond says, pushing himself off the bed. "I'd be half bird- well, I guess I'm already half bird- but I'd be morebird if I was the kind of person that just lies down and lets my instincts ruin my life."

"I don't know if this is exactly the same situation," Altair says, but Desmond shakes his head. He wants to _laugh _because if this is only instinct, he already knows what to do. He feels stupid for letting it get to him so much, but then it had taken him a while to get used to the wings, too. Besides-

"They're your memories, anyway," he says. "I mean- not your memories, technically. They're from the other you-" the one who had never grown wings, had never time traveled, had never done the things the man in front of him had done. "But I trust you. I won't die from your memories."

"They're what?"

Altair is on his feet, white as a sheet when Desmond turns back to him. "Crap," he says. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew-"

"I didn't," Altair says, and Desmond can see Altair's mind racing as he stares at him.

"That's exactly what you've been looking for, isn't it?" Desmond asks. "You always wanted to know what happened to you in this timeline. This is your chance to find out."

Altair takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and closes it again. Then he shakes his head. "No," he says. "I don't want to know."

"You don't?"

"Not like this," Altair says. "Because I want you to know that…" he heaves a sigh and puts a hand over his face. "You're staying because it's your choice. Not because I want something out of you." He steps forward and pulls Desmond into another embrace, holding him tightly like he's afraid of letting go. "When this is all over, and you're done in the animus for good, then you will come home and tell me everything."

Desmond nods, and steps back. "I will," he says. Whatever it takes. He'll get through whatever memories he needs to, beat the bleeding effect, and save the world. Then he'll go home. Altair turns, headed for the window. Desmond glances out and sees a three story drop to the ground, but that's nothing for an assassin, especially one that can fly. He stops halfway there and turns back.

"I'm still worried," he says.

"So send me a babysitter or something," Desmond says. Not that he much likes the insinuation that he can't take care of himself, but to be fair this isn't exactly a normal mission. He would appreciate having someone at his back."

"Unfortunately, the group here won't be so willing to accept someone they don't know. We'd need to have someone they already know."

"So send Connor," Desmond says. "They'll know him."

"Why?" Altair asks, and Desmond winces.

"Apparently you didn't know about that either," he mutters. "So… after we found out Haytham wasn't the demon everyone thought he was, Connor had nothing to do, so he… sort of rejoined the order."

"So that's where he keeps going," Altair mutters.

"I really thought you knew," Desmond says. "And it's not like he told them anything about us. He's not an idiot."

"Not always," Altair agrees. "He's in the country anyway. I'll send him your way."

**-/-**

**So... sorry for blasting you guys with new chapters so quickly, but school's been surprisingly light this weekend and honestly we're two weeks away from AC:U. I'm spending all my time rewatching trailers and driving my roommate crazy with hype anyway, I figure I might as well use that excitement for getting chapters written.**


	21. Chapter 17

Desmond takes another few minutes to pull himself together before leaving the bedroom, and looking for the others. It's not a difficult search- there's a large(ish) open room on the other side of the door, crammed with desks and computers and- he recognizes it, even though it's vastly different from the one at Abstergo- an animus.

"Desmond?"

He's expecting Lucy to be the only one he recognizes, but to his surprise it's Rebecca that's beaming at him from the other side of the animus. "Rebecca?" He grins back at her. "What are you doing here?"

"Hang on-" and this time it is Lucy speaking. "You two know each other?"

"We were in high school together," Rebecca says, and turns back to Desmond. "I didn't know you were- I mean, Lucy didn't tell us your name."

"So you guys were friends?" Lucy asks, and Rebecca nods.

"How did you not realize who he was?" the third person in the room asks, and Desmond glances over at him for the first time. He looks much less happy than the two women. "Seriously, Bill's been looking for him nonstop for years."

Rebecca shrugs and shoots Desmond a conspiratorial smile, which he returns. "This is Shaun, by the way," she says. "Don't let his personality scare you away, he's not totally awful once you get used to him."

Shaun scowls, and disappears into another room as Lucy starts in on interrogating Desmond. "You look better than before."

"I feel better," Desmond says.

"I mean way better," Lucy says. "That doesn't seem possible."

"Your brain was pretty much falling out of your ears," Shaun says, reappearing with a stack of papers in his arms.

"I understand what you meant about the personality," Desmond says to Rebecca. "But um… yea. My brain's back where it's supposed to be, I feel fine, thanks for caring."

She cracks a smile, but it doesn't last long. "In that case… there's something I need to ask you."

Only she doesn't actually ask, just stares at the animus between them. Desmond stares too, trying to ignore the growing pit of revulsion in his stomach. Just because he's starting to figure out the way around the bleeding effect, it doesn't mean he's completely convinced that it's going to work, especially if he spends any more time in the demon machine.

"You want me to go through more of Altair's memories," he says. "Because we need to find the pieces of Eden before Abstergo gets ahold of them."

"Sort of," Lucy says. "Only not Altair." She tilts her head sideways and looks at him through narrowed eyes. "Why aren't you more upset about this?"

"Is being upset going to change anything?" Desmond asks. "What do you mean, 'not Altair'?"

"You have a lot of influential assassins in your family tree," Lucy says. "Not just the one. And like you said, we need to find the POEs before the templars get their hands on them. They already have the same information as we do on Altair, so we need to look for something new if we're going to get the advantage over them."

"So?" Desmond asks. "Whose memories am I looking at?"

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze," Lucy says, stumbling a little over the pronounciation, and Desmond can't stop himself from laughing out loud. Because _of course_ it's Ezio. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised if Haytham and Connor are his ancestors as well.

"Something funny?" Shaun snaps.

"Um-" Easier to lie than to explain. "Just the name."

"You're so mature," Shaun says, rolling his eyes.

"Right," Lucy says, giving Desmond a look that says 'well you're probably crazy but we already knew that so I'm just going to roll with it'. "So anyway, Ezio-"

The computer in front of Rebecca dings loudly, and she makes an apologetic noise. "Sorry," she says. "Just an e-mail."

"So what am I supposed to find in Ezio's memories?" Desmond asks, emphasizing the name just a little, because hearing it said wrong is like nails on a chalkboard.

"If we knew that, you wouldn't have to go in at all," Shaun says.

"But you have to have some idea," Desmond insists. "Or else there's no reason to pick him over any other ancestor."

"Oh!" Rebecca says suddenly, looking up from her computer. "So apparently we're getting another assassin in here," she says, and Desmond raises an eyebrow. Clearly, Altair had wasted no time in guilting Connor into coming.

"What for? Lucy asks, and she looks surprisingly upset by the news. "This is a delicate operation, and the more people we have here, the more likely it is that Abstergo will be able to track us down."

"It sounds like he just heard we were in the country, and since he's here too he's offering to come over if we need any help."

"We don't," Lucy says.

"We… probably could, actually," Shaun says. "I mean, there's only four of us here, and we all have our jobs to do."

Rebecca pipes up as well. "And we could use another fighter, just in case Abstergo _does_ find us. Connor's one of the best, anyway."

Desmond stays quiet, because he's pretty sure he's not supposed to know Connor. Already he's starting to get a headache from keeping track of which secrets everyone knows already. Luckily, because Connor was hardly ever around when Desmond was in high school, Rebecca apparently doesn't remember him from then. He knows she's met Altair, but he doubts she knows any of the others.

Shaun makes an approving noise and nods. Lucy, on the other hand, frowns. "I've never heard of him," she says.

"He joined after you went undercover," Rebecca says. "We couldn't-"

"Communicate with me," Lucy snaps. "At all. Yea, I'd actually noticed that." She turns and storms off, face twisted into a look like thunder. As she passes him, Desmond takes an involuntary step back and flips to eagle vision just long enough to see Lucy's blue aura flash suddenly and startlingly red. It only lasts a second, but it leaves Desmond decidedly uneasy. He's never seen anyone change between ally and enemy so quickly, and he's not sure what to think.

Until then, Desmond had been a little resentful of Altair sending Connor to, essentially, babysit him. But now he's suddenly uncertain, and what he really wants is someone to talk to about what he's seen. Lucy had gotten angry when she was reminded of the time she'd been forced to spend apart from the assassins. Maybe it was just a moment of bitterness that had turned her aura red. After all, from what Desmond understood she had been on her own for a very long time.

Or maybe…

She had been on her own for a long time. It's possible that she could have changed sides. The normal blue color of her aura can be explained as their goals temporarily aligning, or Desmond's natural inclination to trust the woman that had gotten him out of Abstergo. Everything is suddenly a mess, and Desmond is frowning as he turns back to Rebecca and Shaun.

"Well," he says. "That went well."

-/-

Desmond is spared the horrors of the animus for the rest of the day, mostly because Lucy is stewing or moping or scheming or _something_, and the rest of them aren't quite sure what to do next. Connor shows up while Desmond is in the shower, and it's jarring to come out and see him sitting there, having an entirely normal (by assassin standards) conversations.

For some reason, Desmond has never been able to picture Connor with friends. The closest he has is probably Haytham, although in anyone else their relationship would barely qualify as friendly. They're weird people, though, and Desmond has more or less come to accept that he's never going to see either of them with regular friends.

But here's Connor, sat on a desk with his back to Desmond, in the middle of a quiet but animated conversation that Desmond's too far away to overhear. It's weird to remember that he must have gotten to know some of the assassins over the past couple of years, but Desmond should have seen this coming after seeing Rebecca and Shaun's reactions. Clearly, they knew him. Soft footsteps behind him make him turn, and the look on Lucy's face right then makes him worried all over again. She's looking at the group with an expression of stone cold anger that Desmond had never expected to see on her face.

When she sees Desmond looking on her, she wipes the anger off her face and pastes on a smile. "That must be Connor," she says. "He got here quickly."

Desmond doesn't bother answering. "What happened to you at Abstergo?" he asks.

"What?"

"You…" he flails for something to say, and can't think of anything. "Don't look happy," he finishes instead.

"Assassins aren't supposed to be happy," Lucy says, and the smile starts to slide off her face.

"I don't think that's true," Desmond says. He knows it's not, because even though he'd seen the side of the assassins she's talking about while living on the Farm, he'd also lived a relatively happy life after growing wings and being rescued by Altair. "I know it's not."

Lucy snorts. "You left, didn't you?" she asks. "When you were young."

"And now I'm back," Desmond says. "And I don't plan to leave again."

"Hey!" Rebecca calls, apparently noticing the two of them for the first time. "Connor, this is Desmond and Lucy. Lucy, Desmond- this is Connor."

"Hey," Desmond says, and Lucy throws that damn false smile back on her face. Connor glances at Desmond, then quickly away. Desmond winces and hopes bringing him in will turn out to be the right choice- Connor's never liked this kind of complicated charade- but in the end he only nods.

"So you'll be here for a while?" Lucy says, and if not for what Desmond's seen from her already, he wouldn't have heard the slightest hint of disapproval in her voice.

"Yes," Connor says. "Unless you don't need someone else that knows how to fight around here."

"We could always use another warm body," Lucy says, and it looks for all the world like she's happy to have him. But now that he knows what to look for, Desmond can see the tension in her posture and the brittle fragility of her smile. More than that, now that he's looking at her without the expectation that she's an ally, all Desmond can see is the burning red of the aura.

This time, the red does not fade back to blue, and Desmond is relieved when he finally has a chance to talk to Connor alone. The other three are busy with the animus, setting up for Desmond to start trawling through Ezio's memories.

"Lucy's a double agent," Desmond says, the second they're alone. "A templar."

"I saw," Connor says.

"Rebecca and Shaun have no idea," Desmond says. "We have to tell them before-"

"We can't," Connor says. "What evidence could convince them?"

Desmond stares at him. "Well, eagle vision-"

"Sounds insane when you try and explain it," Connor says.

"So we just do nothing?" Desmond demands. "That's stupid."

Connor shakes his head. "We still need to find the pieces of Eden," he says. "Before the templars. We still need the animus for that."

"What's the point if Lucy's just going to learn everything we do?"

"It doesn't do her any good if she can't carry any information back to her superiors," Connor says.

Desmond nods. "So we get what we need without letting Lucy get in contact with anyone." He sighs- even overlooking how difficult that sounds, it feels underhanded to go on like they don't know anything's wrong. But suddenly there are footsteps coming toward them, and they're out of time to come up with a better plan. Desmond takes a hasty couple of steps away from Connor so it looks like they'd been having nothing more than a casual conversation.

"Hey," Lucy calls. "The animus is ready, if you're okay to get started."

"Sure," Desmond calls back, trying to ignore the sudden nervous flipping in his stomach. It has nothing to do with the animus, and everything to do with the uncertain future suddenly facing him. He hadn't exactly expected this to be simple, but now it seems utterly impossible.

But he pastes on a fake smile that rivals Lucy's, and follows her anyway. After all, the only choice he has is to try.


	22. Chapter 18

The animus beeps and whirs quietly in Monteriggioni's underground sanctuary, no louder than it had in the warehouse in Rome, but infinitely more obnoxious. It's driving Shaun slowly and singlehandedly insane, and by lunchtime he's broken three pencils and is cursing creatively under his breath. It doesn't help that he hasn't slept well in weeks now, and that he'd probably be passed out on his desk if not for the fact that they have the fate of _the entire world_ riding on whether or not they succeed. That kind of stress tends to keep people awake.

If anyone else had been there, Shaun's pretty sure he'd be facing some weird looks at that moment. But Desmond's in the animus, Lucy and Connor are in town getting food, and Rebecca is curled up on her side, fast asleep for once. Like Shaun, she hasn't been sleeping well. Possibly she's even been sleeping worse- she's the one that designed the animus they're using here, and this is the first time she's trusted anyone enough to oversee one of Desmond's sessions. Shaun had suffered through almost six hours of lecturing before Rebecca finally decided he'd do a good enough job.

But he's not sure he believes her, because right now he just wants to find a gun and shoot the damn machine until it stops making noise. It had honestly never bothered him until they came to Monteriggioni. This isn't just some temporary safe house, one of dozens the assassins still have scattered around the world. This place _is _history, and the animus doesn't belong here. None of them do, and the constant reminder that they're forcing the present onto the past keeps Shaun on edge and short tempered.

Today, the distraction turns out to be too much, so Shaun throws down his pencil (his last unbroken one) and crosses the room to glare at the animus. It ignores his glare completely (of course), and Shaun finds his attention shifting to the other major point of annoyance in his life right now.

Desmond lies on his back, completely motionless and with a blank, almost vacant look on his face. It's eerie to watch, like all the humanity has been sucked out of him and left nothing but an empty shell behind. Shaun's seen coma patients more responsive than Desmond when he's in the animus. He seems like more of a thing than a person, and Shaun feels a momentary stab of guilt because that's exactly how he's been thinking of the man since Lucy brought him back. Most of the time he just lies like a rock on the animus, and usually it's easy to forget he's even there.

Curious, Shaun takes a step back and glances at the monitor Rebecca uses to watch the memories Desmond's going through in the animus. He rolls his eyes and mutters something uncomplimentary. It's another fight. Of course it is. The animus provides an unprecedented amount of access to history the way it actually happened, and Desmond spends at least 90% of his time poking guards with pointy things. Typical. Bloody typical.

Still... Shaun glances between the monitor and Desmond's still form, not quite able to rectify the two sights. It's so weird to think that right now, inside his head, Desmond is running and fighting and jumping off rooftops, while in the real world he does… absolutely nothing. It strikes him abruptly as sad- Shaun doesn't know much about Desmond's life between running away when he was eight and being kidnapped out of some bar in New York at twenty five, but people with interesting lives don't end up tending bar for minimum wage in sketchy corners of the city. So this is probably the first interesting thing that's ever happened to Desmond, and none of it's _actually _happening. It's all inside his head, and that seems cruelly unfair.

Desmond's expressionless face suddenly twists into a mask of pain, and his back arches as he starts to spasm on the animus. Shaun almost trips over himself running to Rebecca's workstation, but manages to hit the right sequence of keys to disconnect his mind from Ezio's. It takes him about ten seconds to do, but seems like longer. This happens at least twice a day, but it still freaks Shaun out every single time. None of them have any idea why the animus keeps throwing Desmond out, although Rebecca has guessed that he must have some kind of genetic mutation or something that means he can't synch exactly right. Like a genetic disease, she'd said, but since only seventeen people- subjects- have ever used the animus, it's probably rare enough that it hasn't been discovered yet.

So far it hasn't seemed to do any permanent damage, although it sounds like he's dying every single time.

When the animus shuts down at last, Desmond makes a noise like a dying bird and practically launches himself away from the machine. He's obviously not quite back in the real world yet, and Shaun gets a good look at the half crazed look in his eyes before Desmond is suddenly on top of him. They go down in a tangle of limbs, and for a second Shaun lies there wondering what life choices have brought him to this exact moment.

"Sorry," Desmond mumbles, and Shaun pushes him off with surprisingly little effort. Desmond feels like nothing on top of him, and Shaun spares a second to wonder how he can possibly weigh as little as he does.

Desmond barely seems to notice the push, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his back in a gesture that looks like he's hugging himself. But Shaun has seen him do this before, and so he notices when Desmond's tense expression collapses into one of relief and his whole body seems to sag.

"What's this all about?" Shaun asks, mimicking Desmond's motion.

"Nothing," Desmond says. "Don't worry about it."

"But-"

Desmond is already halfway across the room by then, and clearly he has no intention of answering. Shaun's just about to write it off as rude and move on with his life when Desmond suddenly stops in front of Shaun's desk and _laughs_. "Are you reading this?" he asks, grabbing something off the edge and spinning around to face Shaun.

"No," Shaun lies. It's a gut reaction, because he's a historian, damn it, and reading alternate histories isn't the kind of thing he's supposed to do.

"Then why's it on your desk?" Desmond asks.

"Dunno," Shaun says. "Someone else must have put it there by accident."

Desmond makes a disbelieving noise and flips through the book. Shaun opens his mouth to complain, but stops before he can say a single word. There's an excited look on Desmond's face that just looks so different from the disconnected expression Shaun's so used to seeing in the animus, that Shaun can't bring himself to complain. "Have you read it?" he asks, instead. He wouldn't have pegged Desmond as much of a reader, but there he is looking at the book like Christmas has come early.

"Yea," Desmond says in a tone that sounds like he's trying to be casual. "When I was ten. Someone gave me a copy. A… friend." He looks up from the book and grins sheepishly. "I almost ruined my eyes reading it, but I think it was worth it."

Shaun passes right over Desmond's hesitation on the word 'friend', even though it sounds very much like he had been planning to say something else. The eyes comment has him more curious. "What's wrong with your vision?" he asks. "How did you ruin them?"

"_Almost_ ruined," Desmond corrects. "That was right after I went temporarily blind. The doctors told me not to strain my eyes until they'd fully healed, but…" he shrugs. "I don't follow directions well."

"Yea," Shaun says. "I'd noticed."

"Can I borrow this?" Desmond asks, ignoring Shaun's comment. "I mean, if you're not reading it?"

Shaun rolls his eyes at the almost challenging tone in Desmond's voice. "Fine," he admits. "It's my book. I've read it like eight times, it's pretty decent. But yes, you can borrow it."

Desmond nods and walks away, leaving Shaun with the confused feeling that he understands him better now, while realizing just how little he actually knows about the other man. For the first time, Shaun is seeing Desmond more as a person than a thing. Until now, Desmond has been something like a USB stick for the animus- they plug him in and new memories unlock like regular files on any other computer.

Now, suddenly, it seems like there's more to Desmond than Shaun had assumed. Most people don't casually mention that they went _temporarily blind _as a kid and then go on with their conversation like it's no big deal. And then there's the 'friend' Desmond didn't seem to want to talk about.

The whole encounter leaves Shaun vaguely disturbed, but determined to figure out what's going on with Desmond. There's something… off about him, something that Shaun hasn't noticed until today but now he can't _stop_ noticing. "Shit," Shaun curses. He doesn't have time to solve a mystery, but it seems like that's exactly what he's going to have to do.

-/-

Lucy slams her palm down on her desk, and Shaun can't help starting at the noise it makes. "What's the matter with you?" he demands, trying to pretend that he hadn't just jumped six inches out of his chair.

"My e-mail's giving me problems again," Lucy complains. "It's not accepting my password for some reason."

"I'll look at it later," Rebecca calls. She sounds distracted, and Shaun can't much blame her- thanks to some kind of glitch, the animus has been out of commission for half a day already, and she's been working nonstop trying to get it going.

"Did you change your password?" Shaun asks.

"No," Lucy says. "But I can't get in touch with _anyone _on the outside while this keeps up."

She sounds frustrated, and Shaun decides to back off before she gets actually angry. "Need help with anything, Rebecca?" he asks instead, crossing to her side of the room.

"Um…" she sighs and puts her chin on her hand. "Actually if you could go track down Desmond that would be great. I think I might have the animus ready to go but it needs to be tested."

"Sure," Shaun says, and heads upstairs. It's a little past midnight, and Desmond is taking advantage of the way Monteriggioni clears out at night to get some fresh air. Connor's gone too, slipped out at some point when no one was paying attention. From what Shaun knows of the man- and he's worked with him more than once over the past couple years- he has a habit of disappearing at weird times. He just isn't that great with people, so Shaun isn't overwhelmingly worried about where he might have gone to. He'll come back when he's ready.

Desmond, on the other hand, _is _making Shaun nervous. Or not nervous, exactly. But definitely something. Ever since the conversation they'd had- nearly a week ago now- Shaun's been on high alert for any other signs of unusual behavior. So far he hasn't noticed anything significant, or at least nothing _too _significant. But Shaun's been wondering for a while what exactly it is Desmond does when he's out on his own, and this seems like a perfectly good opportunity to find out.

It takes a little over five minutes for Shaun to find Desmond, but eventually Shaun stumbles on him in an out of the way courtyard that's clear of buildings and lit only by one flickering streetlight. Shaun is just about to call out to him when he takes in the details of the scene in front of him, and the call dies unspoken. There's just so much wrong with it that Shaun has trouble believing his own eyes, much less saying anything.

To start with, Desmond is not alone. Connor is next to him, and they're both crouched over something on the ground. It's too dark to see what it is, and anyway their bodies form a wall between Shaun and whatever they're looking at. Shaun quickly gives up trying, and focuses instead on the other major weirdness of the scene- although it's past midnight and extremely cold, Desmond isn't wearing a shirt. Even in the dim lighting, Shaun can see him shivering. And that's not all.

Shaun realizes that his mouth has dropped open, but doesn't bother closing it again. After all, he has good reason. There are two long scars running down Desmond's back, fresh scar tissue on top of what looks like dozens of old injuries, all in the exact same place. It just looks horrifyingly out of place, and Shaun knows something must be very wrong. Then he realizes he can smell blood in the air, and when he squints, he can see two long streaks of blood trailing from the injuries. It shines dully in the streetlight, and Shaun thinks it must still be fresh.

(Only that makes no sense, because if the wounds have had time to scar over, they shouldn't still be bleeding)

That's around the point that Desmond starts… well, cooing. It's the closest word Shaun can think of to describe the sounds coming from Desmond. They're not the kind of sound that should ever come from a human throat, and because of that, Shaun almost doesn't believe he's really hearing them. Then Connor snorts and elbows Desmond (in a far more familiar way than Shaun would have expected Connor to show someone he's only known a few weeks).

"You're not its mother," he says.

"I know," Desmond laughs, and he shifts a little so that Shaun can see that he's holding what looks like a baby bird cupped in both hands. "He fell, I think, but he's not too injured." He points upward, and Shaun sees something like a golden glint in his eyes. "Nest is up there- I'm taking him back up."

"You've already been up once today," Connor says. "There are people around-"

"Relax," Desmond says. "I'm climbing, not-"

He gets to his feet in a single fluid motion and turns to face Shaun before he can do anything to try and hide or pretend like he hadn't been listening. For a second they all just stare at each other- Shaun, Desmond, Connor, even the bird seems to be peeking over the top of Desmond's thumb to see better.

Shaun considers and rejects half a dozen questions, and finally settles on possibly the least helpful one possible.

"I always thought you weren't supposed to pick up baby animals," he says. "Don't their mothers abandon them when they smell human?"

Desmond looks taken aback by the question, glances at Connor (for what, Shaun wonders- permission? Confirmation?) and then back at Shaun. "No," he says. "I mean… birds like me."

"What exactly does that mean?" Shaun demands, and Desmond shifts his weight a little so he looks like he's about to run.

"Um…" he shrugs. "I did my undergrad in animal sciences," he says. "I worked with birds a lot."

"You've been to college?" Shaun asks.

"Did everything but graduate," Desmond says. "I had to leave the week before graduation, but I mean, the education still counts."

Shaun shakes his head, and he's not exactly sure if he's angry or frustrated with this new information. "What is wrong with you, Desmond?" he demands. "Seriously, what did you do with your life before the templars snatched you? Because everything you tell me about yourself makes absolutely no sense."

"Yea," Desmond mutters, pushing past him. "'Absolutely no sense' pretty much sums it up." But he looks happy as he says it, and when he's vanished onto a nearby rooftop, Shaun is left sputtering and confused. He turns back to Connor, who looks torn between caution and amusement.

"You two know each other, don't you?" he demands. "And don't bother lying, because it's incredibly obvious, and you're clearly planning to lie about everything else I saw here tonight."

"Yes," Connor says, with an almost impossible amount of calm. "I've known Desmond over fifteen years now."

"Wow," Shaun laughs. "Seriously, just- why would you keep that secret? What would be so bad about telling the rest of us?"

Connor sighs, and it suddenly hits Shaun that maybe, just possibly, Connor isn't planning to lie to him after all. Then he shakes his head and turns away. "Not now," he says. "Later. When it's safe."

-/-

_Later_ comes after only a few days, and not exactly under the circumstances Shaun had expected. Or that any of them had expected, probably. Shaun spends three solid days waiting around, distracted and watching Connor and Desmond like a hawk.

(Like a hawk- _later_, he will remember that, and the surprising appropriateness of the metaphor)

But they say nothing. Not to him, anyway, although it seems like they're constantly talking together, usually in out of the way corners in voices too quiet to be overheard. So Shaun grits his teeth, resigns himself to waiting, and wonders why it's not safe enough to talk here.

And then- they find out the location of the apple, and for a little while it's all running off to Rome and jumping around in historical buildings and discovering ancient precursor secrets. And while Shaun is constantly terrified that he's going to die in some horribly painful way, at least it's a pretty solid distraction from whatever secrets Desmond and Connor are keeping.

And then…

And then Desmond picks up the apple, and Shaun has half a second of relief because they've done it, they've found the damn thing, and maybe now they can go back to their safe house and be actually _safe _again. And then the second passes, because Desmond looks like he's about to puke or pass out or something, and Lucy (who Shaun hasn't even been paying attention to) is suddenly in front of him with a look of cold anger like Shaun has never seen before on her face.

Lucy reaches for the gun at her hip but Desmond is faster. His eyes snap open to stare at her, and suddenly they're a brilliant, shining gold. The apple, held in Desmond's left hand, glows with a light so sharp it almost hurts, but his hidden blade is strapped to his right arm, and that is suddenly buried in Lucy's stomach.

She stares at him, and he stares back, and there's a blank incomprehension on both their faces. But even though Lucy is dead, even though she must know there's no stopping the bleeding once Desmond pulls his blade out, she's not done yet. She shouts something that seems like pure rage and brings her gun up to point at Desmond's face.

But before she can fire, something behind Shaun screams- screeches, really, like a bird of prey closing in- and suddenly Connor is flying across the room toward the pair. Really, literally flying, and Shaun watches in horror as a pair of wings burst from his back, tearing his clothes as they open. It takes him about half a second to reach Lucy, kicking her away from Desmond just in time to save him from a bullet to the brain.

Then all three of them are on the ground. Lucy's bleeding out, dead or dying, Desmond's on his hands and knees, apple forgotten at his side as he dry heaves onto the ground, and Connor's crouched at his side, wings spread in a manner that seems both protective and afraid at the same time.

And Shaun looks over at Rebecca, who at least looks about as confused as he feels.

"What just happens?" she asks, like he's supposed to know. But Shaun just shakes his head.

"Lucy turned traitor," Connor says, and Shaun jumps at the sound of his voice, more bitter than normal. "A while ago, I think. She was waiting for us to find the apple so she could bring it back to the templars."

"No way," Rebecca whisper, but it's a hollow protestation because there's no question that she'd gone for her gun first, and had clearly been planning to shoot Desmond in the head.

"What about the rest of it?" Shaun demands. "What about-" he gestures to Connor's wings, but can't quite bring himself to finish the sentence aloud.

"It's a long story," Connor says, helping Desmond to his feet and scooping the apple off the ground. "And I'm sure Lucy had allies waiting somewhere nearby."

"We'll explain on the way," Desmond says, when Shaun opens his mouth to continue arguing. He glances down at the apple in Connor's hand. "I know where we need to go."

**-/-**

**Apologies if that chapter seemed confusing: it turns out that it's really hard to write in the POV of a character that doesn't know anything about what's going on.**


	23. Chapter 19

Desmond is exhausted by the time the four of them make it back to the general area where they'd parked the van (days ago, it seems like), and all he wants to do is curl up in the back somewhere and sleep until they make it to America, and whatever fresh new horrors wait for them in the temple it's leading them toward. But when they're still a little ways away, Rebecca stops. "Wait," she says, and makes a move like she's going to grab his arm. But she hesitates, something new and fearful in her gaze, and doesn't touch him after all. "There's something you should know too."

"Yea?" His voice is hoarse- by this point, he's finished telling most of his story (most- the time travel hasn't come up yet, and Desmond's avoided telling them he's been living with his ancestors for the past seventeen years because they look like they can't handle more weird tonight) and he makes a face at the raspiness.

Rebecca nods. "Your dad's here."

He curses and sighs, because William Miles is exactly the last person he wants to have to deal with right now. Or ever, really- just because the man had given Desmond half his DNA (or less, maybe? Judging by the way the animus keeps reacting to him, the changes his wings have brought are more than skin deep), it doesn't mean that Desmond owes him anything. Not a single damn thing. "I'm not going to get a choice about seeing him, am I?" he asks.

"What's the big deal?" Shaun asks, and Desmond makes a face at the purposefully innocent tone in his voice. For whatever reason, the man has made it his personal mission to root out every last one of Desmond's secrets, and he's clearly hoping to find out more now. Only, Desmond's already done his share of explaining for the day, and he's not in the mood for more. That's probably why he snaps at Shaun when he answers.

"The _big deal_," he says, "Is that I haven't seen him since I was eight. He wasn't exactly father of the year then, and I can't imagine he's improved any since. I don't really care if he has, actually, because I want nothing to do with him. The life and the family I had weren't exactly normal, but they were better than whatever I would have had with him."

Shaun doesn't answer that, and a moment later they're at the van. Desmond lets his feet drag a little so he's at the back of the group, and has time to observe the man leaning against the side of the van without being observed himself. The man's old, but he wears his age well. Still, Desmond is quick to notice the lines around his eyes, and the way his limbs seem stiff as he moves.

He stumbles, and feels Connor's hand on his elbow, guiding him on. And while the familiarity is a comfort, the person Desmond most wants to see at that moment isn't Connor, but Altair. And he's far, far away.

The worst of it is that Desmond doesn't even recognize him. In all his imaginings of this moment (and there have been many, over the years- sleepless, fear fill nights as a child, moments of idle worry as an adult when he should have been too old to care), he'd always assumed he'd feel… something. But he doesn't even recognize this… stranger. His father, apparently.

Maybe, if Desmond had been older when he left, he would be able to remember. But in the long, lonely days of his early childhood, all Desmond had known was a looming, watching shadow, always looking down on him with critical judgment, always disapproving and usually angry. What he sees now is just a man, and that's the one thing Desmond has not prepared himself for.

He realizes that everyone is looking at him, and that someone must have done introductions while he hadn't been paying attention. "Sorry," he says. "Wasn't listening."

His father snorts. "Of course not," he says. "Typical."

Desmond almost punches him right then. The only reason he doesn't is the look on his father's face- while the expected look of disdain is stamped across it like an unpleasant mask, his eyes are uncertain, and Desmond realizes his father has no more idea of what to do here than Desmond does.

So instead of lashing out at him, Desmond only frowns. "You don't have to be like that," he says. "I didn't exactly want to see you again either."

William's face goes suddenly hard, and he doesn't say anything else as they all load into the van. Desmond and Connor go in last, and Connor takes the opportunity to whack Desmond across the back of the head. "I know for a fact that you were raised better than that," he says quietly.

"Like you're the model of normal father-son relationships," Desmond shoots back.

Connor sighs. "Try and be civil," he says. "You have to work with him, not like him."

-/-

Desmond's next session in the animus ends about as well as the others. Still, he's used to it by now, and he only shakes his head to clear the buzzing before picking himself off the floor of the temple. New ancestor, same old story. "You okay?" Rebecca calls from her workstation. She's no more surprised by the animus rejecting him than he is, but she still manages to sound concerned.

"I'm fine," Desmond says, and reaches back for his scars as he ambles over to her. He knows from experience that she'll need to recalibrate the animus before he can go back in, and he doesn't much want to think about what he'd just seen. So far, he's only had to deal with Altair and Ezio, and while seeing them in the animus is weirdly different from what he knows of them personally, they're still the same people. Haytham… isn't.

This version of Haytham, the one without wings and time travels and a sort-of-assassin upbringing is different from the one Desmond knows. And sure, there are similarities between the two of them, but this Haytham is ruthless and cold in a way that makes Desmond feel extremely sad. After seeing this, he can actually understand why everyone had been so quick to believe Haytham could have killed Edward.

This Haytham is an _asshole_.

Connor's perched on a ledge nearby, and Desmond looks up at him, just to make sure he's okay. But Connor only nods, apparently fine with Haytham's appearance in the animus. Then again, he's had firsthand experience with the asshole version of the man, so it's not like he has reason to be surprised.

"Hey, Desmond," Rebecca says, looking up from her computer. "I had a theory about why the animus keeps kicking you out."

"It's because of the wings," Desmond says. "I mean, they changed everything else, why not my DNA?"

"Exactly," Rebecca says. "And I thought- if… I mean-"

"Spit it out, Rebecca," Desmond laughs.

"So I saw the way Connor can make his disappear," Rebecca says. "Do yours do the same thing?"

"They don't disappear," Desmond says. "I mean… they're just on the inside instead of the outside. I can still feel them and everything."

"How does it feel?"

He grins. "Kind of itchy."

"How do they _fit?_" Shaun asks, and Desmond realizes he and Connor have both kind of drifted over to join in the conversation.

"If you figure that out, we'd all owe you," Connor grumbles, and Shaun raises an eyebrow.

"Who's 'all'?" he asks. "'All' usually means more than two people. Are there more of you?"

"Shh," Rebecca says, before either Connor or Desmond can answer. "I'm trying to figure out how to stop the animus from kicking Desmond out every couple hours."

"Seriously?" Desmond asks. "You can do that?" The bruises all over his body from where he's hit the floor too hard too many times start to twinge in reminder."

"Maybe," Rebecca says. "But I won't know until everyone backs off and gives me a chance to test this out."

Shaun holds up his hands in defeat as Rebecca turns back to Desmond. "So what do we do?" he asks.

"Take off your shirt," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"I want to try you in the animus _with _the wings," Rebecca says. "I don't know if it's going to do any good, but…"

"I can't," Desmond says. "I can't lie on my back with the wings."

"It strains the muscles," Connor adds. "I pulled one of mine out of the joint when I was nineteen. Not pleasant."

"We'll worry about that later," Rebecca says. "You can lie on your stomach for the test."

Desmond nods and strips off his shirt. Honestly he would have accepted almost any excuse to let his wings out. Apart from one (too brief) flight in Monteriggioni, he hasn't even seen them since before Abstergo kidnapped him.

He pushes them out more quickly than normal, and can't help the gasp of pain as his skin splits open. Years and years later, it still hurts just as much as the first time, but the relief of feeling wind on his feathers again completely drowns it out.

"You're bleeding," Shaun says.

"Whoa," Rebecca says, and when Desmond glances over at her, she's staring at his wings with wide eyed amazement. "So I know we have bigger issues right now, but can I just say that's completely amazing?"

Something falls to the ground with a crash a little way away, and the attention of the group suddenly shifts from Desmond to his father, standing in absolute amazement with a knocked over desk at his side. And that's about the time when Desmond remembers that William hadn't been there earlier to see Connor's wings, and that no one had thought to explain to him. Not maliciously or anything, just… a lot had been happening.

"So," William says. "Do you have something to tell me, Desmond?"

And it's the tone in his voice, assuming he has a _right _to know, that drives Desmond crazy.

"No," he says. "No I don't." And he turns his back on his father- not for the first time- because even another stint in the animus is better than dealing with his father.

-/-

Rebecca's idea works, better even than they have any right to expect. Not only does the animus stop kicking Desmond out, his synchronization rate soars. Pun fully intended, Rebecca says when she first notices the trend.

They figure out a way for Desmond to lie on the animus comfortably, even with his wings, and for the next couple days everything goes smoothly. Until finally, and predictably, William corners Desmond for a talk.

"I don't want to talk to you," Desmond says.

"Unfortunately, you don't have a choice," William says. "There are five of us working here, doing something very important. This has nothing to do with you or me, but we have to at least be able to work together."

"Fine," Desmond says, after a longer internal struggle than he really should have had. "What do you want?"

William sighs, and Desmond is reminded again just how _old _his father is. "I want to know why you left."

"I-" he realizes he's hunched over, wings wrapped around him, and makes a conscious effort to stop. "That was when my wings grew in," he says. "I was sick. I was scared. There were things happening to my body that I didn't understand. And then these-" he shakes a wing for emphasis. "Came in. I was eight years old, and as far as I knew, I was going crazy, or hallucinating or something."

"Desmond-"

"I asked you to stay," he snaps. "I was sick when you left and you went anyway." And it's absolutely amazing how it can still hurt that much after so long. He shrugs. "I was scared. So I ran."

He expects William to deny it, but he doesn't bother. Grudgingly, Desmond gives him a little bit of credit. "Where did you run to?" he asks instead.

"Nowhere in particular," Desmond says. "I just ran." He takes a deep breath, because he knows perfectly well that William's not going to like this. "And that's when dad found me."

He's right. William doesn't like it. He goes stiff, and Desmond actually feels bad.

"Well," William says. "I guess that makes sense. You've always been needy, I can't imagine you surviving on your own for long."

It's a halfhearted insult, and Desmond lets it slide because it's obviously William's attempt to cope. "Yea," he says. "I guess so."

"Well," William says. "When all this is over, I want to meet the man you replaced me with."

Desmond winces. "It wasn't like that-"

"That's what it sounds like," William says, and it's the tiny note of hurt in his voice (even though it's absolutely his fault and nothing will ever convince him otherwise) that makes Desmond say what he does.

"I can call him and he'll come," he says. "You could meet him… I don't know, tomorrow, if you want. Or as soon as he can get here, I guess."

"Yes," William snaps. "Bringing an innocent into assassin business, especially business as important as this-"

And the idea of Altair being called an _innocent _is so ridiculous, Desmond actually laughs. "Don't worry," he says. "He is an assassin, actually."

William raises an eyebrow. "Well then," he says. "I am extremely interested in meeting him."

"Yea," Desmond mutters. "Just wait until you find out who he is."

**-/-**

**Fun(?) Fact: So, according to the assassin's creed wiki, William Miles is 64 years old in 2012. Absolutely not relevant in any way whatsoever, but seriously, that man does not like he's over sixty. idk, maybe he's had plastic surgery? ****Also- Ezio was 65 when he _died._ Just for the sake of comparison.**

**Sorry, I have a semi-anal need to know how old characters are at all times. **


	24. Chapter 20

Connor's the one that actually ends up calling Altair, because Desmond is urgently needed back in the animus. While everyone else is busy with their various responsibilities, Connor heads out from the cave. He's not foolish enough to risk a phone call while he's anywhere close to where they're working. So he travels for nearly an hour, until finally he comes to a town that seems large enough for Connor's one phone call to be drowned in the general din of cell phone traffic.

He finds an out of the way corner to make his call, and watches the streets while the phone rings dully in his ear. After ten or fifteen seconds, he hears a click, and someone says hello. But it's not the someone he'd been expecting, and Connor's fingers tighten round the cell phone, and for a second he can't answer. He hadn't expected to hear Haytham's voice, and it hits him like a blow to the stomach because the last few days have been _hard_. Watching Desmond relive his father's memories had brought up some memories of Connor's own. The kind he would have been happier without revisiting. Ever.

"Hey," he says, more quietly than he'd meant.

"You okay?" Haytham asks, and Connor sighs.

"I'll be fine," he says. "Things have just been a little harder than I expected." He hears Haytham start to ask a question, and pushes on before he can ask for any details. "That's actually what I was calling to ask about," he says. "Is Altair around?"

"He went out and forgot his phone," Haytham snorts. "Again. Why?"

"Just… when he gets back, let him know Desmond needs him out here," Connor says.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Connor says quickly. "It's just awkward family stuff."

"He'll love that," Haytham says. "More drama."

Connor shrugs, even though he knows Haytham can't see him. "He'll come for Desmond," he says, and Haytham doesn't bother arguing. They both know Altair had loved Desmond as if he had really been his father from the moment they found each other on the streets of New York. He would take a bullet for him, run through fire, do anything to keep him safe.

"Connor?" Haytham asks, and there's a faint note of concern in his voice that makes Connor feel weirdly better. After days of watching Desmond go through Haytham's memories in the animus, it's good to remember that the distant, unpleasant templar that is his father _isn't_ the version of the man he has to deal with.

He follows that train of thought all the way back to the cave where the others are holed up, but by the time he finally makes it back, the only thing he really knows for sure is that this family is weird, and that when Altair shows up, it's only going to get worse.

It should be something to worry about, but Connor is smiling when he finally gets back. Once, many years ago now, he would have spent a lot of effort avoiding and ignoring this kind of excitement. But after the mess that his life has become, he's pretty much used to it all by now.

He's actually looking forward to it, in a weird sort of way. It's a familiar pattern by now, this weirdness of his life and his family, and he's… kind of missed it.

-/-

When he gets back to the cave, everyone is in such a state of upset disbelief that Connor assumes something terrible has happened. He doesn't calm down again until he looks over at Desmond and sees him doing a terrible job of hiding his laughter.

"Move over," he says, and Desmond obligingly shifts so Connor can sit next to him. "What happened?"

"Ah-" Desmond drops his voice a little to make sure that no one else will be able to overhear their conversation. "They only just found out that he was a templar," Desmond says.

"It wasn't obvious?" Connor asks.

"I guess only if you already know what to expect," Desmond says. He laughs again, but with less enthusiasm this time. "Not that it's funny that he's a templar, I mean… that part's actually kind of horrible. It's just their reaction."

Connor nods. He doesn't much feel like laughing himself. "What's it like in his head?" he asks. "I always wondered what made him so different from the Haytham we know."

Desmond leans back a little, giving the question some serious thought. "He was lonely," he says. "All the time I was in his head, that's the biggest thing I noticed. It's kind of sad, actually."

"It's really sad," Connor corrects. "I keep wondering-"

But he stops there, because he's never admitted this to anyone, and after twenty years he doesn't see a reason to start talking about his feelings now.

"What?" Desmond presses.

"It's nothing."

"Yea, right."

"They're the same person," Connor says, before he's decided it would be a good idea to say anything at all. "But they're so different."

"Well, yea," Desmond says. "Time travel."

"So if my dad had been more like Haytham-" and he realizes, not for the first time, how complicated it is to have two versions of the same person in his life. Even if one of them is centuries dead. "What would my life have been like? I might have had parents, a life, a happy childhood-"

"Wow," Desmond says. "That was more sharing than I had expected."

"Yea, me too," Connor grumbles.

"Okay," Desmond says. "So do you want my opinion, or do you want to pretend like you never said anything so we can go back to pretending nobody here has father issues?"

Connor snorts. "Fine," he says. "What's your opinion?"

"That you got the dad you did and the brother you did," Desmond says. "You can't do anything about the way it worked out, so there's no point worrying about it."

"Sorry," Connor says, after a short pause. "Brother?"

Desmond rubs at the back of his head and curls his wings up in embarrassment. "It's just that when I first came home, Altair was like a dad to me."

"I noticed," Connor says. "We all noticed. So?"

"So when I was a kid I used to play this sort of game with myself to try and figure out how we would all be related if we were a regular family. I mean, obviously that was before I knew you were all my ancestors. So Ezio was like this exciting uncle who went to all these foreign places looking for treasures."

"Pieces of Eden."

"I was eight," Desmond says. "They were gold and glowy, I thought he was some kind of real life Indiana Jones. So then I figured you were like a way older brother, or something, and when we finally figured out Haytham wasn't the murdering psycho we all thought he was, I thought brother for him, too."

"I never knew that," Connor says.

"Yea, well…" Desmond grins. "Stupid, right?"

Connor shakes his head. "I think that put it all in perspective. You know I never-" he takes a deep breath. "After we found out he didn't kill Edward. I never apologized for all the time I spent wanting to kill him."

"I'm sure he knows," Desmond says.

Connor makes a noncommittal noise and makes a mental note to call Haytham again the next chance he gets. There are things they need to talk about, and Connor needs to say some things that should have been said years ago.

"Hey, Des," Rebecca calls. "Ready to get back in the animus?"

"Good to go," he says cheerfully, and William makes a confused noise.

"Why are you so okay with this?" he demands. "You just found out you were inside a templar's head."

Desmond shrugs, clearly unconcerned and not interested in pretending he cares, and in no time at all he's plugged back into the animus. Connor sighs- he doesn't have a designated job while Desmond is in the animus, and that means there are hours of boredom ahead of him. He's gotten as far as wishing he had a book or something to read, when Rebecca says, "Well that's different."

"What is?" William asks. "Something wrong?"

"Not wrong," Rebecca says. "It's just that this is a different ancestor. Some kid."

And Connor has to choke back a curse because for some stupid reason he hadn't been expecting this at all. The last memory Desmond saw had taken place in 1755. He'd been born in 1756, so from what he understands of the animus, that means Desmond will have to move onto his memories.

Connor shudders at the thought of someone inside his head and thinking his thoughts and remembering his memories is pretty unnerving. Even though it's Desmond, someone he trusts as much as he trusts anyone, Connor feels a strong desire to walk over and rip the wires out of the animus. The only reason he doesn't is that he has no idea what that would do to Desmond stops him.

He drops into an empty chair next to Rebecca and pretends its just casual interest that makes him study the video feed of Desmond in the animus. Rebecca half waves and goes back to looking at the feed, absentmindedly chewing on her pencil. "Curious?" she asks.

"Something like that," Connor says, without taking his eyes off the screen. He's a little preoccupied with watching himself on the screen.

"He's kind of cute," Rebecca says, and Connor feels his ears turn red. "Like when Desmond went through baby Ezio's memories."

Connor makes a noncommittal noise. He doesn't like being called cute (even if he'd been four years old at the time), and from what he remembers from that particular session, Ezio had been an unattractive, red faced baby that cried too loudly.

"Clearly you don't like kids," Rebecca says.

"Not this one," Connor says.

They don't speak again for a while. Connor's attention is divided between watching the screen and worrying about what's going to happen when they get farther into his memories. It's kind of a stretch to connect a four year old child from the eighteenth century with a thirty nine year old man in 2012. But if- when- they see his later memories, he'll look more recognizable. That's not a conversation he's looking forward to.

"You look tense," Shaun says after a few hours of this. "What's wrong?"

Connor shakes his head and stands abruptly. "Nothing," he says.

"You should try and take a nap, or something," Shaun says. "Have you been sleeping?"

"Well enough," Connor says, but the truth is, he's slept about ten hours over the last three days, and he very much does not want to sit here and watch his own memories any longer. "But I'd like a couple hours."

-/-

Desmond is out of the animus when Connor wakes up again, and for a second they just look at each other, trying to decide if this is going to be awkward or not. Then Desmond grins and Connor shrugs, and that's the end of it as far as the two of them are concerned.

And so far, no one else seems to have made the connection. At least, no one is looking at Connor weirdly or asking pointed questions. "Why are you so jumpy?" Desmond asks, after a quarter hour of Connor restlessly pacing back and forth across the temple floor.

"What happens when you get farther in the memories of my- his- the other me…" he sighs. "Someone's going to connect me to him."

Desmond snorts. "Doubt it," he says. "I got pretty far while you were asleep, and I don't think the two of you are at all alike."

"I'm not anything like… myself," Connor repeats. "I don't follow."

He must have spoken more angrily than he'd meant, because Desmond puts his hands up defensively. "I didn't mean anything by it," he says. "But you've been here- in this century, I mean- for a while. Almost as long as you were in your native time, right?"

"And?"

"And you fit in pretty well," Desmond says. "You seem pretty normal. Most of the time. But that guy in the animus would have stuck out like a sore thumb. It's not the most obvious connection to make. As far as anyone's concerned, the only thing the two of you have in common is a name."

"I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that," Connor says.

"Well, when Altair shows up, it'll probably all come out," Desmond says. "You called him, right?"

"Don't worry about it," Connor says. "He'll be here soon."


	25. Chapter 21

Altair shows up at some point while Desmond is in the animus. He knows nothing about it until he wakes back up, and suddenly Altair's sitting right there next to him, somehow managing to look pleased to see him and worried at the same time. "I still don't like this thing," Altair says.

"Well, I can't say I'm a fan either," Desmond says. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Altair says. "And I've… met your father."

He glances over his shoulder, and Desmond looks up to see William glaring at the two of them from the other side of the temple. "I assume it didn't go well?"

"He wouldn't say anything until you woke up," Shaun says.

"Are you eavesdropping?" Desmond asks.

"Absolutely," Shaun says, in a tone that's so cheerfully unconcerned that Desmond doesn't even bother arguing. "You're the one that came by the warehouse in Italy, aren't you?" he asks Altair. "I recognize your voice."

Altair nods, and Desmond can practically see Shaun filing the new information away in his mental _find out all Desmond's secrets _folder. "So should we get this over with?" he asks, sliding off the animus.

They all gather, even Shaun and Rebecca, who technically have no right or reason for being there, but no one actually says anything. Eventually, Desmond realizes that he's going to have to break the silence if he ever wants this conversation to start at some point. Except he keeps feeling like he should start with introductions, and he can imagine exactly how that's going to go. 'Dad, meet my other dad. His name's Altair. You might have heard of him, he's kind of a big deal.'

Yea. Like that's going to go well. "So," he says. "Um… this is about as awkward as things can get."

"Not true," Altair says. "I could have brought the others."

Desmond goes suddenly pale with the horror of imagining how much worse this would be if he'd had to introduce his whole family at once. Altair nods and turns back to what he'd been doing before. Namely, studying William with all the judgmental intensity he can muster. Even though he's not the one under scrutiny, that glare makes Desmond start shifting uncomfortably. He's seen it enough times growing up to know that trouble is coming. And the worst part is that William is looking back at him with more or less the exact same expression.

And William, in the end, is the one that speaks first. "So you're the one that stole my son."

"Of course not," Altair says. "Objects can be stolen. Not people."

"Semantics," William snaps. "Call it kidnapping instead of theft if you want, the only thing I need to know what gives you the right to pick my kid off the street and take him away from me."

"I think finding him on the street in the first place is reason enough," Altair says.

William snorts but suddenly he's looking at a point just above Altair's head, rather than into his accusatory gaze, and when he changes the subject Desmond recognizes that it's because he knows he's lost that particular fight. "So who are you, anyway?" he asks.

And Desmond bites his lip to keep from laughing as Altair gives William a slow, lazy smile and prepares to answer. Years and responsibilities have tempered whatever arrogance he'd had as a younger man, but without living through the traumas Desmond had seen in the animus, Altair is still prone to occasional bursts of pride.

"My name," he says, "Is Altair Ibn-La'Ahad. I've been with the assassins since I was born, I've traveled through time and seen more than most people could imagine, and I'm one of six people in the world with wings."

"I didn't ask for your resume," William says, and there's a truly impressive amount of disdain in his voice, considering that he's gone paler than a sheet and looks like someone's just walked over his grave.

"Fair enough," Altair says, without missing a beat. "Because really, I only have one qualification that you should care about."

"And what's that?"

"I'm the one that raised your son," Altair says. "And in case you've been too busy paying attention to your own problems to notice, he turned out just fine. Better than fine, really- he's the kind of son that _both _of us should be proud of."

William's gaze strays from Altair to Desmond, who at that moment is bright red and trying to pretend that Altair's words don't mean as much to him as they do. "He certainly seems less traumatized than I would have expected," he admits. "Given what I've heard so far." He hesitates, then- "Time travel? Really?"

He sounds way less angry than he had a few minutes ago, although still definitely hostile. Still, it doesn't look like there's any chance of real violence in the next few minutes, Desmond decides this is a good time to duck out of the conversation.

Shaun follows him across the floor of the temple, practically bouncing so that he looks like a kid on Christmas morning. "I knew it!" he crows.

"Really?" Desmond scoffs. "You saw this coming."

"Well- not exactly," Shaun admits. "But I wondered about Connor." He points a finger at Connor, who is watching the ongoing argument between Altair and William with apparent interest. "That's the Connor from the animus, right?"

"More or less," Desmond says. He doesn't feel much like explaining the intricacies of alternate universes right now.

"That is the coolest thing I've ever heard," Shaun breathes, and Desmond gives him a look of extreme confusion.

"This is supposed to be the part where you say something sarcastic or tell me to go be annoying somewhere else," Desmond says. "What's wrong with you?"

"It's just that this is a dream come true," Shaun says. "Literally. When I was a kid, I used to pretend I could meet all these famous historical people, and now it's actually happening-" he suddenly crosses his arms and frowns at Desmond. "And you got to grow up with that?"

"Yea," Desmond says. "Listen-" he's already had a full day in the animus, and now that the first relieved excitement of seeing Altair again has faded, all he wants is a solid eight hours of sleep. "It's been a long day, I'm going to bed."

But Shaun trails after him all the way to his bedroll, whining like a small child the entire time. "Come on," he insists. "You have to at least tell me something."

"I-" Desmond is about to tell Shaun to just go away and let him sleep, when his gaze falls on the book he'd borrowed from Shaun back in Monteriggioni, which is lying on his bedroll. He still hasn't gotten around to returning it, but he grabs it now and grins at Shaun. "Fine," he says. "I'll tell you one thing. Then you let me sleep."

"Deal," Shaun says.

"This book you leant me?" Desmond holds it up so Shaun can get a decent look, then points at Altair. "He wrote it."

And the gob smacked look on Shaun's face as he tries to process that is _exactly _the reaction Desmond had been hoping for.

-/-

A couple days after that, when everyone has had a chance to get used to the revelations that have been thrown at them, and to ask the million and one questions on their minds, Desmond is cornered by William for a second time. Desmond's on his way out of the cave (for security reasons he's not allowed to go far, but he needs the fresh air) when he sees William making a beeline toward him and sighs.

"What do you want?" he asks, but William doesn't answer, and Desmond rolls his eyes. It makes him feel like a teenager, but his father is really starting to drive him crazy. "Fine," he says. "You want to follow me around, I don't care. But I'm going out to fly so this isn't the best time for a conversation."

"That's fine," William says. "I'll watch."

And he does. For forty five _perfect _minutes, as Desmond revels in the feel of wind on his face and in his feathers, William does nothing but watch. He's actually so quiet that when a fresh snowfall finally forces him to the ground, Desmond has almost forgotten his father is there.

When he lands, the sight of William waiting on the ground is an unwelcome jolt like an electric shock in his stomach. But for once, William has nothing negative to say. In fact, he's completely silent until they're within sight of the cave again. Then William stops and clears his throat. "Desmond," he says, a little stiffly. "We need to talk."

"Yea?" Desmond stops, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders so his wings fall across his naked back. "What's going on?"

"Your mother and I never planned to have children," William says bluntly. "We knew the Farm wasn't a good place to raise a kid. You were just an accident."

"Wow," Desmond says. 'Thanks."

"The point I'm trying to make," William says, testily, "Is that we weren't prepared for you. We made mistakes. _I_ made mistakes. And I know it probably won't matter much now, but I never meant to harm you. And…" His eyes drift from Desmond's face to his back. "Watching you today, I realized I would have done a horrible job with raising you. I don't have wings. I can't fly. Altair did a better job raising you than I ever would have."

Desmond bites his lip and thinks for a long minute while he tries to decide how to answer. Finally, he sighs. "I'm sorry," he says, even though he's not quite sure what he's apologizing for.. "It sucks that things turned out the way they did."

William nods, and makes a short, stilted movement like he's going to touch Desmond. Then his fingers touch feathers, and he stops abruptly. "I'm going inside," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I'm just gonna… I'll stay out here."

He stands at the mouth of the cave and watches the snow fall. As always, this weather reminds him of the first Christmas he'd actually celebrated. The one where Ezio had taken him to buy a tree, and he'd flown for the first time. But right now he just feels vaguely sad at the thought. So maybe William had been (still is) a terrible father. It's still sad that the man can't even bring himself to touch his son.

"Hey, Desmond."

He doesn't hear Altair come up behind him until he speaks, and can't quite stop himself from jumping. "Sorry," he says. "I'm just kind of out of it."

"Well, everyone's waiting for you," Altair says. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine," Desmond says. Then he hesitates, and adds, "Thanks." And he doesn't mean _for telling me_, he means _for everything_.

Altair puts his hand on Desmond's shoulder and squeezes gently. "You're welcome."

-/-

A few days after that, Shaun starts finding the batteries they need to fully power the temple. It sparks something of an argument while they try to figure out which of them can best be spared to retrieve them.

Finally, Desmond suggests they get Ezio to do it, since he's been hunting old precursor artifacts for more than two centuries anyway. "Nobody knows more about this stuff than he does," he points out. "He'd love to do it."

And that idea at least stops the argument, and sure enough Ezio does agree to get the batteries for them. It also leads to another weird conversation with Shaun, though, who is almost comically upset he hadn't known about Ezio earlier. "You could have told me," he says later.

"But it seemed like you were having so much fun playing detective," Desmond says.

"I thought you lot were done keeping secrets," Shaun says. "Seriously. Wings, time travel, ancestors, is there anything else you haven't mentioned? Any more ancestors hanging out at your place?"

"No," Desmond fibs.

"Just Haytham," Connor corrects from where he's been sitting nearby, so still and quiet Desmond had half forgotten he's there.

"Are you-" Shaun glances around, but the others are all occupied with something else at the far end of the temple and don't appear to have heard. Still, he drops his voice. "Are you kidding? You seriously have a templar living with you? In the same house and everything?"

"Technically he doesn't live with us," Desmond says. "But I mean, he's part of the group, I guess-" he turns to Connor. "Why are we talking about Haytham?"

"He's a templar!" Shaun says.

"And that is why nobody talks about Haytham," Desmond mutters, but neither Shaun nor Connor are listening to him.

"He's family," Connor insists.

"Not my family," Shaun says. "And does it matter if he's yours? That doesn't change any of the things he's done!"

"He didn't do them," Connor says in a voice that's almost a growl.

"The animus doesn't lie!"

"Shaun-" Desmond winces as they both spin round to glare at him. "Okay, first of all could you have said that any louder? And second, yea. You're right, the Haytham in the animus was a complete jackass. But the one in this century is different. He had a different life, he's not a templar, he's not even that bad of a guy."

"Are you serious?" Shaun looks between Desmond and Connor like he's expecting one of them to laugh and announce that they'd been kidding. "How can you know that for sure?"

"Because all of us used to think the same way you're thinking now," Connor says. "And we were wrong, and did a lot of harm. But he's a good man, and I'm tired of hearing him talked about like he's a monster. I know I've done enough of that myself."

Shaun nods, frowning a little, and then jumps as a tinny alarm starts ringing from Rebecca's computer.

"Sorry!" she calls, running over to the group and shutting off the alarm. "I forgot I set that." Her customary smile fades a little as she takes in the serious faces. "Something wrong?"

"No," Shaun says quietly. "Connor was just telling me how wrong I was about- something."

"Oh," Rebecca says. "Well, good. Keep doing that, he needs to hear it more often."

Shaun scowls at her and Connor half smiles. The tension eases a little, and Desmond turns to Rebecca. "So what was the alarm for?" he asks. "Anything important?"

She nods. "It's midnight," she says. "December 20th. Our last full day before the end of the world. If we don't find the key today, and figure out how to use it…" she trails off, but Desmond doesn't need her to finish. He can imagine the consequences of failure as well as she can.

"Right," he says. "Time for another animus session then, I guess."

**-/-**

**So, if you're reading this and enjoying it at all, you should check out this fanart by Lady Idryl: deviantart art/Desmond-in-the-Animus-492087196 Just saying. It's pretty cool. :)**


	26. Chapter 22

Desmond gets to the end of Connor's memories with hours to spare. Luckily, Davenport homestead (or whatever it's become in the past few centuries) isn't that far from where the assassins are hiding out. "It'll take a couple hours to get there," Rebecca says after a quick scan of google maps. "Less, if we ignore speed limits."

"Perfect," William says. "We can't all go, though. There's not enough room in the van. Who wants to volunteer?"

"I'll go," Desmond says at once. He would have volunteered for almost anything that gets him out of the cave for a while, but this is especially important. He has to be there, he knows it deep in his bones, without knowing how he knows.

Once, in Desmond's first semester in college, he'd taken a class taught by an ancient professor of old English literature, who'd gone on and on about the original word 'doom'. "It wasn't the same word centuries ago as it is now," he'd said. "Once, it meant something more like 'destiny', although that destiny was rarely if ever a good one. A person's doom was not only their fate, it was also a terrible burden…"

At the time, Desmond had laughed with the rest of his classmates over how weird the whole lecture had been. But he's never quite been able to forget the intensity in the old man's voice, or the loo in his face as he stared down each student in turn. There _had_ been a definite atmosphere in the room, with the lights flickering as the ancient wiring struggled to hold up under the strain, and the wooden desks creaking under the students' nervous movements. Because _of course_ this professor had been given the worst room in the oldest building on campus, the one that constantly smelled like mildew and age.

And now, as the end of the world comes closer and closer, Desmond remembers the old man, and feels like his own doom is descending on him. Even without knowing exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, he _knows _it will be bad. And he knows this key is part of it, so he has to be one of the people to go get it.

And maybe some of that shows on his face, because even though he hasn't been allowed out of the cave since they got there two months ago, no one argues with him now. But Altair crosses his arms and makes it abundantly clear without saying a word that he'll be going with.

"I'm going too," Connor says. "I haven't been back there in- a long time."

"Right," Rebecca says. "Room for one more. Any takers?"

"Me," Shaun says, surprising Desmond a little. "I'll go."

"That's settled then," William says. "Rebecca and I will stay here and hold down the fort."

"And Ezio's coming by with the last battery in a couple hours," Altair says. "You should get him to stay too, just in case something goes wrong."

William nods- his relationship with Altair can still be described as rocky at best, but they've been making a tangible effort to be more civil to one another lately. With all the other worries facing them right now, maybe they've just decided it's not worth fighting. Whatever the reason, Desmond's just grateful for the respite.

"So should we go?" he asks. "Apparently we're on a tight time table."

"Yea," Altair says. "Let's go."

Desmond sits in the back with Shaun on the way out, who looks very clearly uncomfortable to be sitting in on this family road trip. "So why did you want to come with?" he asks, after half an hour or so without either of them talking. Altair and Connor are quietly arguing directions in the front, but their conversation doesn't penetrate the silence of the back seat.

"Curiosity, I suppose," Shaun says. "Your family's… unusual."

"To put it lightly," Desmond mutters, as Connor starts complaining that they could have just flown there faster.

"And I keep thinking that this is all going to be over soon," Shaun says. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I think… this might be the last time any of us get to see each other for a while. I know it seems dark, but-"

"I know exactly what you mean," Desmond says. "It's all going to end soon."

-/-

Seeing the places he's only been to in the animus is strange and disorientating, but it's obviously worse for Connor. From the moment they step out of the van he's tense like a spring that's been coiled together too tightly, and Desmond can't help worrying a little. "You okay?" he asks.

"Fine," Connor says, in a voice that is not fine at all.

"I know coming back here isn't easy-"

"That's not it," Connor snaps, and Desmond flinches a little.

"Then what's bothering you?" he asks

"I've... never been here," Connor says. "Not really. This isn't the world I'm from. It was some other me that lived here, who did things I've never done, and knew things I don't know. And he's been dead a couple hundred years, so that's a little strange to think about too." He frowns. "Maybe you're right, and it is just hard coming back here."

"Well, here's something to cheer you up," Altair calls from a little farther ahead. "Someone familiar."

Both Desmond and Connor turn to see what he's looking at, and Connor's face breaks into an unexpected smile. "Haytham," he says. "What are you doing here?"

"I texted him on the way out," Altair says.

"And I was in the area anyway," Haytham adds, which weirdly enough makes Desmond want to laugh. Now that he's putting the geography together in his mind, he realizes that this place really isn't that far from where Haytham works, and he'd gone to school. That part of his life seems so distant as to be unreachable, and it's weird to think that right now, nearby, there are people doing perfectly normal things. Attending class. Studying. Making stupid decisions.

He shakes his head and glances over at Shaun, whose attention seems fully taken up in examining Haytham. "Are you okay with this?" he asks.

Shaun jumps. "Yea," he says. "I'm fine."

"Really?"

"Well- he's on our side, isn't he?" Shaun asks. "That's what you said."

"Sure," Desmond says.

"Then I guess I'm fine," he says. "Why are you acting like I shouldn't be?"

"Probably because you've struggled with everything else you've learned about my family?" Desmond suggests. "Plus when I was growing up, we all thought he was like this horrible murdering psychopath."

Shaun gives him a half disbelieving look, and visibly decides not to say anything.

"So should we dig this trinket up now?" Haytham asks, either unaware or not caring that Desmond and Shaun are talking about him. "From what I understand, we're working with a time limit."

So they dig. The key isn't buried deeply, but they're still looting a grave, and the sheer morbidity of it all makes the whole task seem worse than it really is. They work mostly in silence, apart from a few mumbled curses against the weather. It's officially winter now, and it shows in the sharp bite of the wind on their faces, and in the frozen hardness of the ground as it fights them for every inch.

Finally, Connor reaches down and pulls something small and hard out of the dirt. A thin chain dangles from between his fingers, swinging gently as he holds his hand up for the others to see. If not for the two hundred years' worth of grime still clinging to it, the key would have looked exactly the same as it had in the animus.

"I guess this is really it," Desmond says quietly. "We have it."

Altair nods. "Ready for another two hour car trip?"

"No," Desmond says, but Altair only laughs and heads back to where they'd left the van.

"Are you headed back home?" Connor asks Haytham.

"Unless you don't have a problem with me tagging along," Haytham says. "I'm a little concerned about what I've heard. Tomorrow is supposed to be the end of the world, isn't it?"

A sudden wind cuts through him, and Desmond shivers. Just like that, he's reminded of the doom he'd been thinking about so much lately. He turns away from the others a little, and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He can feel his wings- hidden at the moment because the last thing they need is something else to draw attention to them while they're busy gave robbing- straining to get out so he can just fly away. Every instinct he has is screaming at him not to go back to the cave, but he's spent years now ignoring his instincts with great success, and he continues to ignore them now.

-/-

Haytham has to fly on the way back, because there's not enough room for all five of them in the van. He doesn't complain though, and Desmond doesn't blame him. If anything, he's a little jealous, but he does reluctantly listen to Altair when he points out that they can't afford to lose him right now.

"I'll be glad when this is all over," he grumbles, and Altair sighs.

"You and me both."

The trip back is quicker than the trip out, but they still barely make it back before midnight. The benefit is that there's no time for questions about Haytham's sudden appearance. The downside is that they have almost no time to actually save the world once they've unlocked the last room with the key.

They hurry in, with Desmond trailing at the very back of the grope. Every step is a struggle, and the feeling of doom is on him more heavily than before. He pauses, and takes a second to look back at the place where they've all been stuck in during the last few months. For the first time since they first got there, it's completely empty. The only noise is the sound of the wind whistling against the distant entrance, and Desmond seriously considers just running for it. Going somewhere else. Anywhere else.

He almost does it, too. There's a prickling fear on the back of his neck that makes it hard to think straight, and he actually takes a step or two backwards. What stops him, very unexpectedly, is the eagle.

It half flies, half tumbles into the cave, carried more by the force of the wind outside than its own power. The bird looks almost comical as it gathers itself together, shaking out its frozen, wind ruffled feathers and giving Desmond a what-do-you-think-you're-looking-at look. And he's not a big believer in signs or omens, but it still seems like there's still something significant about the bird showing up at this exact moment.

Desmond laughs, holds up his hands in mock surrender, and follows the others deeper into the temple. Behind him, the eagle's approving screech echoes off the stone walls.

But by the time they've all been packed into the tiny room to hear Juno's mocking final choice (and there are eight of them there, so packed is exactly the right word), Desmond's not laughing anymore. It's close to midnight, and there's no time to process what she's said, much less come up with a third option.

"No way," Altair says, and his voice shakes like Desmond has never heard it before. "Those can't be the only two choices," he says."

"No," Desmond says. "The world dies, or I die. It's not a hard choice."

(But it is, it's the hardest choice he's ever had to make)

Even though it should be clear, even though he knows that his one life cannot be as important as the life of everyone else on the planet, he's scared shitless and the last thing he wants is to go through with this. He's afraid of dying, no matter how just the cause may be. But he knows it's the right thing to do, and so he makes sure to keep his voice steady and the fear (terror) off his face. He knows that if Altair catches even a hint of what he's really feeling, he'll try to talk him out of it. And Desmond's not at all sure he'll be able to argue with him over this.

"Are you sure?" Altair asks.

"I have to do this," Desmond says, which is not quite an answer to the question Altair had asked, but then again, he's not quite sure about anything right now.

Altair studies him for a second, then reaches for Desmond and pulls him into a tight embrace. "I am so proud of you," he whispers, and then he makes a weird, strangled noise that Desmond almost doesn't recognize. Then he realizes- Altair is crying.

"Please leave," Desmond says quietly, pulling away from Altair. "All of you." He doesn't want any of them to see, and he's not sure he won't just give up and walk away if there are people around, trying to talk him into taking the easy way out. A few of them look like they're going to argue, but in the end, no one does. Before long, Desmond is completely alone, apart from the ghostly, flickering specter of Juno.

She watches him with eager, hungry eyes as Desmond strips off his hoodie and shirt, and lets his wings fall out. He's going to die, but he's not going to die hiding what he is. As much as he can, he's going to go out on his own terms. When he's ready, Desmond takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and slaps his hand onto the glowing sphere in the center of the room.

If he'd known how much it would hurt, he would have ran while he still had the chance. If he'd been physically able to pull his hand away, he would have done that, too. But all he can do is stand there and scream. So that's what he does. He feels like there's a fire under his skin, burning him up from the inside. His ears feel like they're stuffed with cotton balls, and his vision is fading around the edges. When the orb finally releases him, Desmond's suddenly weak legs collapse under him, and he falls onto his back. The pain of his wings breaking under him as he hits the ground is muted and distant (he's too numb to feel much of anything), but he hears it as it happens, a series of sharp cracks. They ring in his ears like gunshot, and Desmond would have sobbed if he'd had the energy or the breath to do so.

For a long while, Desmond lies where he's fallen, drifting in and out of consciousness, gradually fading away. He wishes someone would come back, because he doesn't want to die alone. And then he wishes them far, far away, because he wants them to be safe.

Then, after he doesn't know how long, Desmond hears quiet footsteps nearby, and feels a hand on his face. It's a light, insubstantial touch, and Desmond shifts as far away from it as he can, because it feels like what he imagines Juno would feel like. But by this point, he's so tired and numb and broken, he can only manage an inch or two of movement.

"Lie still," a woman's voice snaps, and Desmond freezes out of sheer surprise. He recognizes the voice but it's Minerva, not Juno. "I had hoped you would take the other choice," she says, and Desmond feels her shift one hand so that it's pressing down on his forehead. At the same time, she shoves her other hand onto Desmond's chest. She pushes so hard that Desmond would have cried out if he could have, and he swears it feels like her hands have pushed right through his skin. For a second, he's positive that this is her punishing him for choosing Juno's option over hers.

"Regardless," Minerva goes on, "You have done as well as could be expected. From a human. And you deserve a better death than this one." She sighs, and Desmond gets the distinct impression she's talking more to herself than to Desmond. "And with Juno free to walk the world again, we can't afford to lose any soldiers in the war against her."

That's when Desmond feels himself start to change. Under the pressure of Minerva's pushing, probing fingers, he feels something start to give. It's not so much his physical body as… something else, something more important, something inside him that he doesn't know how to name. And then the something _breaks_, and Desmond is suddenly faced with the disorienting sight of his own broken body on the ground next to him. He can move again, and there is no sign of the pain that had him so completely paralyzed a few seconds ago. But something is wrong.

"I could not preserve your body," Minerva says. "But I imagine an eagle's form will not prove too difficult an adjustment for you."

It takes all of five seconds for Desmond to process this, and then he gives a cry of joy and spreads his wings. They don't feel exactly the same as what he's used to, but Desmond barely wobbles as he shoots like a bullet toward the cave's opening, and _freedom_ it promises. This isn't the life he would have chosen, but it is a life, and most importantly he can still fly. Later, there will be problems, and later, he will deal with them. For now, he is lost in the joy of the moment, of the sheer ecstasy of being alive when he should be dead.

The eagle that had been in the temple when he left looks up at him as he flies past, and shoots into the air to follow after him. Desmond ignores it, focused solely on the idea of leaving this place (this place where he'd _almost_ died) and getting into the open air. And then, when he finally does-

He soars.


End file.
